


From the Ashes

by missbecky



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mission Fic, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 09:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12033297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/pseuds/missbecky
Summary: Eggsy never expected to find Harry Hart alive and well at Statesman. But Harry is not the same man he was, and if they are ever going to have a future together, first they have to deal with the consequences of what really happened that day at South Glade Mission Church.





	From the Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this just after the first teaser trailer came out, as a way of trying to answer the question of why Statesman seems to be holding Harry almost as a captive. I was initially inspired by the novel Firestarter, which is where the original idea came from.
> 
> Subsequent trailers have since made this very non-canon compliant, but then it was always going to be that way, given the nature of this story. Also, because I started writing it so early, there are things/characters that canon has since showed us that aren't reflected in this fic.
> 
> Many thanks and love to Mollie and Kelly for all their support and feedback. Thanks to concernedlily and deepdarkwaters for their help in Britpicking -- any errors are mine and not their fault. Section headers come from The Catalyst by Linkin Park.

_I. we're a broken people_

 

For all their adherence to the tried and true, there is one tradition Kingsman thankfully doesn't follow. No one at his knighting says, "Galahad is dead, long live Galahad." Which is good, because the last thing Eggsy wants is to embarrass himself by crying in front of everyone.

He does end up tearing up a little anyway, when he sits down in that chair that used to belong to Harry. His throat is tight as he sips the celebratory brandy.

It tastes like dust.

Afterward he shakes their hands, accepts their solemn congratulations. Some of them eye him warily, unsure of him in spite of what he did in Valentine's bunker. Others are more genuine in their welcome.

Roxy is the only one who smiles at him.

****

The world is crippled after V-Day, in some cases severely so. But it does keep turning. And that means there is work to be done.

The first thing Kingsman does is look after itself, making sure no more traitors lurk in their midst, patching up the holes created when some of them are killed in the global violence. The second thing they do is start looking after the _other_ people, the ones they've been monitoring all these years. All those would-be despots, bomb makers, bringers about of the end of the world. Some of them are dead in the aftermath of V-Day, but like cockroaches, most of them survived. They all need to be checked on, and as the newest knight, Eggsy is the one to do it.

He travels around the world to all kinds of exotic locations, finding ways to spy on mutinous generals, insane engineers, even a couple of United States Senators. Some of them have given up thoughts of war and bloodshed after what happened on V-Day, shocked into a sobriety of sorts.

Others require some persuasion.

Without fail, Eggsy is there. Whatever is necessary. A bribe, blackmail, a well-timed threat. Twice he has no choice but to kill. He does it all, and he does it well.

He is an excellent Kingsman.

****

_Date: [Redacted]_

_Following this morning's attack, we moved Subject H down to Holding Room 5. (Why we continue to call him this is beyond me; we've already established that "Henry DeVere" is a dead-end alias.)_

_I have misgivings about this. Isolation is not good for human beings, especially one as disturbed as H. But the padded walls will help protect both us and him during future attacks, and the air vents are designed for swift delivery of the knockout gas._

_(Note: I refuse to call this gas our "sleeper agent" in spite of Tequila's encouragement. I believe my feelings on this matter are well-documented.)_

_Interestingly enough, H spotted the air vents within four seconds of waking. Judging by his expression, he knows exactly what they are for. Confirming my suspicions that this is no average civilian. (Champ, once again I beg you to tell me anything you might know.)_

_Since waking in HR5, H has been docile. None of us are fooled, though. He will certainly try again to escape. However, it is imperative that we keep him confined. We're dealing with the unknown here. A man with his abilities could wreak terrible havoc among an innocent population._

_\-- Ginger_

****

He moves into that white house in Stanhope Mews. He brings over all his possessions but doesn't change much inside the house. Roxy tells him it's not healthy, that he's made the house into a shrine. Eggsy can't really argue with her, but neither is he willing to tear down all those things that remind him so painfully of Harry.

"But why?" Roxy asks one night. She sits on the rug in front of the fireplace, her legs curled beneath her. She's nowhere near as drunk as Eggsy is; a dark bruise shadows one cheek where some arsehole got in a lucky hit on her last mission.

Eggsy just shrugs morosely. "Dunno." It's the only thing he can say.

He wakes up the next morning with his face buried in the pillow. Roxy snores beside him, fully clothed, one shoe still on, even. He blearily remembers the two of them stumbling up the steps, Roxy following him in, saying she wanted to make sure he got to bed properly. She must have decided to lie down just for a moment, maybe, and wound up falling asleep herself. He would be tempted to take a picture and blackmail her with it, except he knows she's got far worse on him already.

He rolls onto his back and groans as his aching head reminds him of how much gin he drank last night.

And that only reminds him of that one night he and Harry had. The martinis, the way their hands brushed as he passed the cocktail glass to Harry, the thrill of lightning sparking beneath his skin at even that brief touch.

Eggsy squeezes his eyes shut. He's got to let go. He knows that.

He just wishes he knew how.

**** 

_Date: [Redacted]_

_H attacked us again this morning. We put him down quickly enough, but not before Bourbon got his arm broken. He will be out on medical leave for at least a month._

_In studying the footage, it seems clear to me that the intensity of this attack was diminished from the previous ones. (Although I'm sure Bourbon would beg to differ.) Subject H is clearly not capable of the things he was at the start. Additionally, when he was finally taken down, he had a moderate nosebleed, although that could have resulted from Bourbon's counterattack and cannot be considered definitive proof of anything._

_Nonetheless I hypothesize that H's abilities are dwindling. Further EEGs and study will be necessary, but I believe that we will soon be able to see a measurable difference in intensity. Eventually the ability may go away completely. See Appendix F for further details._

_That's a good thing, Champ. The human brain just wasn't meant for this._

_\-- Ginger_

****

He's a great Kingsman, all right. Until there suddenly isn't a Kingsman anymore. In one spectacular night, it all gets blown to bits. Literally.

When the dust settles, only a few of them remain. Roxy volunteers to stay in London and rally the survivors, and start the laborious process of digging out from the debris and taking stock of what's left. Eggsy gives her a tight hug, and Roxy returns it with the strength of grief.

So that's just him and Merlin off to Kentucky then.

He can't believe it. Just this morning he made toast for breakfast and ate it standing up at the sink, so he wouldn't get crumbs on the counter or on his suit. Just this evening he was undercover at a posh dinner, pretending to be a brainless young nobleman while showing off his flash new orange dinner jacket.

And now it's all gone. The toaster, the kitchen sink, the house where he once slept in a room down the hall from Harry and wondered what would happen if he were to slowly open the door to Harry's bedroom and creep inside. The mission he was on, the data about his target, the beautiful mansion where the orders came from, all fallen into a pile of rubble.

Merlin seems just as shocked, just as bewildered about what to do next. They don't talk much on the journey across the ocean, or as they creep through the distillery in search of something they can't even define. Eggsy's pulse beats in his temples and his breath sounds too loud in his ears.

Through it all, he has the weirdest feeling, like he's been shot out of a gun, hurtling forward with all control lost. He's terrified, but he knows beyond a doubt that he can't stop. He has to keep going.

Some of his fear goes away when they meet Tequila and learn about Statesman. But the confusion only deepens, questions piled upon questions, some of which he just blurts out. Merlin gives him a sharp look, but Eggsy is unrepentant. There's too much he needs to know; gentlemanly etiquette can go fuck itself.

Tequila leads them through the halls of Statesman, offering the occasional brief explanation. His boss is expecting them, he says, but they're taking the scenic route to get there. They're walking slowly, strolling almost, but still Eggsy feels like he's arrowing forward; he looks down once and is shocked to see his feet are on the floor. _Keep going_ , he tells himself. _Keep moving._

With no other choice, he does exactly that. And in the meantime he takes it all in, memorising their route through the place, checking discreetly for hidden cameras, for locked doors, for anything that might prove useful later on.

Useful for what, he doesn't really want to know.

They round a corner and go through a set of wide double doors. Here at last they encounter someone else, another member of Statesman. Eggsy needs only one look to know that she's their Merlin. It's not just the room itself, which is full of computers and screens and towers of computer servers. It's not even the glasses and the stylish haircut. It's the sharp intelligence in her eyes, the way she assesses them with a single glance before looking at Tequila.

"This is Ginger," Tequila says. "She's kind of in charge around here, actually." He grins, bright and goofy as he explains to Ginger who they are and what Kingsman is. Eggsy thinks he might actually like the man once things slow down and he's able to forget how effortlessly Tequila beat up on poor Merlin.

Merlin eases further into the room. Eggsy follows right on his heels. He takes in Ginger's set up, admiring what he sees even as he can't help comparing it to Merlin's makeshift workstations set throughout Kingsman HQ. Merlin has an office of his own, of course, but he rarely uses it. There's no telling when an agent will ping him, needing something; far better for him to hurry over to the nearest workstation rather than run for his office.

Like Merlin, Ginger has several screens running at once, showing various locations. Statesman agents on their missions, Eggsy assumes. The biggest screen, though, isn't static. The image here shifts after a few seconds from a bright outdoors flooded with sunshine to a white-tiled hallway. As Eggsy watches, it changes again.

And just like that, the world finally stops. Eggsy stops too, no longer hurtling forward, but freezing solid. 

He's too stunned at first to even breathe. It can't be. There's no way.

The image on the screen is Harry Hart. He stands in front of what is clearly a two-way mirror, using it while he shaves. He's dressed in a soft grey jumper over a plain white T-shirt. His hair is shorter, and a black eyepatch bisects his face.

He is alive. Impossibly, incredibly, alive.

Eggsy starts to tremble. His heart does a painful jolt in his chest, like it wants to leap out between his ribs. _Harry…_

Next to him, Merlin is equally shocked. "Oh my God, Harry," he breathes.

But all Eggsy can say is, "Fuck me."

"You know him?" Ginger sounds surprised.

The image on the screen changes again, this time to someone's office. Eggsy jerks forward. "Put it back!" he yells.

Ginger taps at the keyboard, and now the image is Harry again. He's nearly done shaving.

Eggsy stares and stares. Harry. Alive. Missing an eye. Kept in a room with padded walls, with butterflies and shit drawn all over them. Fucking hell, what have they done to him?

He hears the tapping of a keyboard, and then Ginger exclaims, "Hey!"

Eggsy turns and sees Merlin typing away on another keyboard, already deep in their system. A flush of pride comes over him then, swelling his chest. Since everything got blown to bits back home, he's been angry, scared, and confused. Coming to Statesman has only made him feel small, like everything he had is second-best. But now here is Merlin doing what he does best, infiltrating Statesman's systems, and Eggsy has never loved him more.

"You can't be in there," Ginger says angrily.

Tequila starts forward from where he's been hanging out by the door. Immediately Eggsy turns to meet him. His whole body is strung out with tension, ready for a fight. Fuck that, he's _beyond_ ready. He _needs_ to kick someone's ass right fucking now.

"What is all this?" Merlin says in amazement. He stares up at the computer monitor he's working on.

Ginger waves Tequila off with an irritated gesture. He stops, but watches Merlin carefully.

Eggsy relaxes, but only the tiniest bit. He glances at Merlin, then looks back at the screen showing that padded room. Harry has finished shaving and is cleaning up the sink now, a grey towel in one hand.

"This is impossible," Merlin says. He's still staring at the screen in front of him.

"That's what we thought at first," Ginger says.

Bewildered, Eggsy looks between them, glances back at Tequila to make sure he hasn't moved, then turns to Merlin. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Merlin looks at Ginger. He looks as stunned as Eggsy's ever seen. "But how?"

She shakes her head. "We don't know. That's what we've been trying to find out."

It's gotta be Harry they're talking about. Eggsy doesn't know what could be putting that look of wide-eyed wonder on Merlin's face, and it scares him to death. Have they found Harry only to lose him again?

"I don't understand…" Merlin trails off, scrolling through data on the screen that Eggsy can just glimpse out of the corner of his eye.

The not-knowing is killing him. "Would someone tell me what the _fuck_ is going on?" he demands.

"Your friend," Ginger says. She gestures to the screen that shows Harry, now sitting down at a table in the far corner of the room. "He's telekinetic."

Eggsy stares at her. There's no possible way he heard that right. There's just no way. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Means he can move stuff with his mind," Tequila drawls.

Eggsy gives him a swift glare; he's been at Kingsman for so long now he'd almost forgotten how it felt to have people condescend to him, like he can't understand big words and all. "I know what it fucking means," he snaps. "But what does it _mean_?"

Ginger looks at him helplessly. "We don't know."

On the screen, Harry sits still at his little table. There's a huge lamp on the table, white and hinged, like something out of a doctor's office. Other items line the table, too small to be identified. More drawings, maybe, and the colored pencils used to create them.

"But…" He flounders. None of this can be real. Okay, sometimes people survive getting shot in the head. It happens. But for Harry to be here, of all places? And _telekinetic_? How the fuck is that even possible?

 _This ain't that kind of movie, bruv_ , says a little voice in the back of his head.

"The best we can tell," Ginger says, "is that it's a side-effect of the device Richmond Valentine used at the church."

"But then why doesn't half the world have it, too?" Merlin asks.

"Because the one he used at the church isn't the same one he used on V-Day," Ginger replies. "It was smaller. Portable. With a different frequency." She looks frustrated. "It's not much, but it's all we've got."

"Wait, how do you all know that?" Eggsy says. How can they possibly know about South Glade Mission Church? How can they know Valentine was there that day?

"We found him," Tequila says. He jerks his head toward the image of Harry on the screen. "Your buddy."

Eggsy turns to Ginger, silently demanding an explanation. She in turn glances at Tequila, maybe wondering how much she's allowed to say.

"I think you better tell us," Merlin says quietly.

"We had an agent at that church," Ginger says. "When we went to retrieve her, we found your friend in the parking lot. He was the only survivor. He was unconscious, badly hurt. We would have just called 911, but Champ ordered us to bring him in." She looks at Merlin, then at Eggsy. "I can only assume he somehow recognised your friend as being from Kingsman. Anyway, we brought him here, did what we could for him…and he attacked us."

Eggsy snorts in derision. "Well, yeah. You're fucking holding him prisoner."

Ginger looks affronted. "That came after," she says. "He tried to kill us. Several times."

"Because you're fucking holding him prisoner!" Eggsy shouts. Like how fucking stupid are they, that he has to actually say this out loud.

He's glad he's angry, though. At last he feels like he can do something. Like he isn't stuck here in this increasingly bizarre situation, while somewhere out there Harry is in a padded cell missing an eye and able to move things with his mind.

"Where is he?" he demands. "I want to see him."

"Yeah, I don't think that's such a good idea," Tequila says.

Eggsy rounds on him. He's still spoiling for a fight, and he'll happily knock Tequila on his arse if the man tries to stop him. "I don't give a fuck what you think," he says. "That's my friend you got. He's one of us. We're taking him with us. _So where is he_?"

Ginger gives him a long look, studying him. Maybe she's trying to figure out why he's so upset, why this seems to matter so much to him. Eggsy doesn't care. This is Harry they're talking about. _Harry._

"Okay," she says. She looks at Merlin. "Are you coming too?"

"Hell yes, I am," Merlin says crisply. It's hard to say how this is all affecting him. After his initial shock over the whole telekinesis thing, he's withdrawn into the neutral face Eggsy knows so well. Certainly he's doing a better job of hiding whatever it is he's feeling.

"I'll stay here," Tequila volunteers.

Ginger nods. "Then come with me."

****

They don't have far to go to reach what Ginger calls Holding Room Five. Eggsy can hardly contain the urge to break into a run.

After all this time, he's going to see Harry again.

He's still a bit shaky. He has to really work at staying outwardly calm, so Merlin and Ginger doesn't know how fucked up he is over all this. Not that it probably matters. He already gave himself away to Ginger, and Merlin's probably known the truth for ages.

They stop in front of a door marked with a numeral 5. Ginger opens it using a keycard and gestures for him to go inside.

It looks like one of those rooms he's seen on police shows on American TV. There's a computer at a desk set in front of the two-way mirror. A door in the corner leads directly into the room.

Harry is still seated at the table in the far corner. His back is to the mirror. He doesn't seem to be doing anything, though. He's either lost in thought, dozing, or… Well, Eggsy doesn't want to think too much on that, on why a person trapped in a padded cell would be just sitting there staring blankly into space.

"Be careful," Ginger warns.

Eggsy barely spares her a glance. His pulse is racing, and he has to swallow hard before he can speak. "He won't hurt me."

She doesn't answer, but he can feel the disapproval radiating off her.

He ignores this and goes over to the door. He waits to hear the click of the lock engaging, then turns the handle and steps inside.

The room is slightly cool and has that sterile non-odour he associates with hospitals and labs. It's very bright, the overhead fluorescents seeming to bounce off the padding on the walls. He spots Harry, standing up now in front of that little table, and his heart does another one of those painful jolts in his chest.

He's barely taken a single step forward when the air around him changes. It's like he's stepped into a pocket of super-heated air. It pushes on him, sudden resistance not only making it harder to move, but actively gathering against him, as though it means to grab him and throw him backward against the wall.

Then Harry flinches in shock, and the resistance crumbles. "Eggsy?"

Just the sound of his voice is enough to make the tears burn his eyes again. Eggsy nods. He's grinning like a stupid idiot. "Harry."

Harry stares at him for a second longer. Then his gaze sweeps the area behind Eggsy, searching for anyone else who might be there. "Who's with you?" His voice is thick with suspicion, and maybe, just maybe, something else.

"Just Merlin," Eggsy says. He doesn't glance behind him; he can tell from Harry's expression that Merlin remains in the other room, out of sight.

For a long moment they just look at each other. Eggsy tries not to stare at the eyepatch, not just because it's rude, but because it's upsetting. Harry always had the most beautiful eyes. He was the kind of person who smiled more with his eyes than with his mouth; Eggsy can't remember a time when Harry actually gave him a big full-toothed smile.

And now one of those eyes is gone forever. It makes him hate Valentine all over again. Because Harry is alive, yeah, but he's _suffered_. And that's far, far worse.

Then Harry says, "Why are you here?" And it's not the question itself that breaks Eggsy's heart. It's the way he asks it, wary suspicion mingled with desperate hope in his voice.

"We're gonna take you home," Eggsy says. He tries to smile and fails miserably. He can feel his face wanting to crumple up, and he has to press his lips together to stop their trembling.

Because oh fuck, Harry doesn't _have_ a home anymore. Not that white house in Stanhope Mews, not the graceful Kingsman mansion, not even the shop on Savile Row. It's gone. All gone.

Just the thought of having to tell Harry these things is enough to make his stomach wrench. He can't imagine how he'll break that news, how he'll tell Harry that he's been rescued -- only he's literally got nowhere to go.

They can deal with that later, though. Right now he takes a step forward, then another, and Harry just stands there looking at him, that single eye fixed on his face.

He's actually thinking he'll make it all the way across the room when Harry's gaze suddenly jerks past his shoulder. He stiffens up, and once again Eggsy feels the air around him thicken. 

He whips his head around and sees Merlin and Ginger slowly walking in. 

He looks back again at Harry, and alarm rushes through him. Harry stares at Ginger with undisguised hatred, nothing at all like a mannerly gentleman. He stands lightly poised on the balls of his feet; even in slippers and trackies he gives the unmistakable impression of someone ready to fight.

And Eggsy is caught right between them.

He turns back toward Ginger. "You better get out of here."

"I don't think so," she says calmly. She does stop, though, so she remains standing near the door.

Merlin walks forward alone. He tries to smile, but he too looks like he's having trouble. "Late again, Galahad." He stops beside Eggsy.

For a long moment all three of them just stand there, Ginger forgotten at their backs. Eggsy can feel the weight of years between Harry and Merlin, a friendship deep and unfathomable, bound together by things no man should have to bear alone -- and thankfully doesn't have to.

And he can feel the line connecting him and Harry, more slender, more fragile. But it's there, all right, wanting to pull him forward. Wanting to close the distance between them.

Forget London and piles of rubble, a life in burning ruins. This is _really_ why they came to Kentucky, even though they didn't know it until just now. To find Harry.

Harry starts walking toward them. There is no hesitation in his gait, no limp, no obvious sign of any physical injury. Except for the eyepatch, there is nothing to set him apart from the man who walked into that church all those months ago.

Eggsy watches him approach, his heart in his throat. He could be back in that house in Stanhope Mews again, standing just inside the doorway, watching Harry descend the stairs. He has the same twisted knots in his chest and stomach. The same conflict of love and pride and fearful anxiety. The same yearning for all this to please please have a happy ending.

Harry draws nearer and now Eggsy can smell the lingering scent of whatever shaving cream they've given him. He can see the way the strap of the eyepatch presses against Harry's forehead. He is really here, not a dream, not his own fevered imagination, not a ghost brought on by grief and guilt and too many martinis.

He's really here.

Eggsy can't stand still any longer. Harry is still a couple feet away, but that means nothing. He strides forward, his arms already opening. There's all the time in the world, Harry could easily fend him off, but he does nothing. And so at last, at long last, Eggsy hugs him tight.

Harry stiffens up at first, almost flinching back. His arms rise slowly, like he's not sure what to do with them. Then he wraps Eggsy in a warm embrace, holding him close.

Eggsy makes a sound, a quiet choking noise that's embarrassingly like a sob. He can't help it. Tears burn his eyes, though he does his best not to let them fall. But it's so hard not to. After all this time, all those lonely months, he's found Harry again.

Harry doesn't say a word. He bows his head ever so slightly, his right temple pressed to Eggsy's hair. A quiver runs through him, and Eggsy wonders how long it's been since anyone touched him, and he does cry a little then, powerless to hold the tears back any longer.

He'd be perfectly content to stand there all day, but Merlin discreetly clears his throat, reminding them both that they're not alone. Harry releases him instantly, moving back and putting some space between them again. Eggsy is slower to react, his arms still half about Harry, his hands brushing Harry's waist as they separate. He sees that Harry was not crying, wasn't even close, and he quickly sniffs back his own tears and swipes away the evidence.

"We should go," Merlin says.

"Yeah," Eggsy says. His voice is still thick with emotion, but at least he's gone on record as speaking up, not just standing here like an idiot.

There is no gathering up of belongings, not one backward glance. Harry leads the way out without hesitation. Eggsy stands aside and lets him go. He's not surprised -- although he is wary -- when Harry stops in front of Ginger.

Harry doesn't say anything to her, though. He doesn't need to. At a look from him, Ginger winces a little. Eggsy guesses she's maybe feeling that ghostly touch, the sensation of the very air around her rising up in protest, ready to do her harm.

Then Harry marches on, past her, through the open door and out into the hall. A free man at last.

****

After the meeting with Champ (which is excruciating and lasts far too long), they head to a bar to wait while Ginger searches for any information on who destroyed Kingsman. Tequila stays behind to help, but an agent called Whiskey comes with them. Eggsy makes a crack about the code names at Statesman, but then shuts up when he suddenly realises that he might not be Galahad anymore now that Harry's back.

He really wants a chance to sit and talk to Harry, but the bar definitely isn't the place for it. For one thing, Merlin and Whiskey are there. For another, Harry himself sits in a stiff manner, his old suit still fitting him perfectly, his missing eye hidden behind a pair of glasses Champ gave him. He doesn't say much, and he drinks only water. And he never stops glancing around, like he can't quite believe that he's really here.

Eggsy drinks his pathetic excuse for a martini and says nothing.

He doesn't say anything either when the assholes start causing shit. Or when Whiskey takes care of them with his whip. But when Whiskey swaggers back over to their table, a smug look on his face, Eggsy can't help it.

He smirks at Harry. "Not bad. But I've seen it done better."

Whiskey's face falls. Harry doesn't speak, but his mouth softens into something that's very nearly a smile.

They're still at the bar when Ginger makes contact. She's found out who is targeting Kingsman.

After his initial shock, Eggsy just has to laugh. Given what happened just the other day, he shouldn't be too surprised. And really, it's too fucking perfect. Charlie Hesketh, of all people. Charlie, who never really wanted to be Lancelot. Not really. He just wanted to win, to score another prize, lord it up over the girl and the pleb from the estates. He would've been a terrible agent had he actually been given the chance.

Instead he's aligned himself with some nutter, some crazy lady named Poppy. And they want to finish what they started.

"Well," Merlin says. He stands up. "Shall we go, gentlemen?"

It's a toss-up who gets to their feet first, Eggsy or Harry.

****

The journey to get to Poppy is tough. The battle to take her down is even harder.

Merlin sets up a crude workstation in the ski lodge. Whiskey gives Harry an ugly coat to wear against the cold. He also grins and lobs a cowboy hat onto Harry's head.

Harry lets it sit there for less than half a second before whipping it off and sending it sailing down the mountain. They all stand there watching it become a meaningless dot against the snow. Then Whiskey says, "Bourbon won't be too happy about that."

"Then maybe you shouldn't give his things away," Harry says, his voice as chill as the weather.

They split up, and Eggsy has to bite his lip to keep from letting on how disappointed he is that he isn't partnered with Harry. Instead he and Whiskey find themselves headed up the mountain in a car on the ski lift.

"Is he always like that?" Whiskey asks.

"No," Eggsy says. "Only to people who held him fucking prisoner."

Whiskey rolls his eyes a little at this, but says nothing.

Halfway up the mountain, something happens. The cable snaps or the pulley fails. Whatever it is, their car suddenly tilts dramatically, tipping toward the faraway ground. Eggsy yells in terror as he finds himself in freefall, arms pinwheeling as he plunges toward the front of the car -- which has now become the bottom of the car.

They're falling, really falling. The snowy mountain slope gets closer with dizzying speed and there isn't a fucking thing they can do about it. Eggsy stares wide-eyed at his imminent death, plastered to the window, unable to move.

And then the car jerks. He crashes his forehead against the window hard enough to see stars. But they're not falling anymore. The cable has got hooked on something, maybe.

Or rather, they _are_ falling, but now it's a controlled fall. Softer. The ground still approaches, but at a stately, measured pace.

"Hang on!" Whiskey cries, but there's really no need.

The car thumps on the ground, rocks a little, then falls back to its normal upright position. Eggsy tumbles to what's now the proper floor again; Whiskey lands in a heap beside him.

"You okay?" he asks breathlessly.

Whiskey nods.

Together they exit the car and look around. There are other cars and a second ski lift, but they agree without words that this is not an option.

They'll find another way up the mountain.

****

When it's all over, they gather in the side of the ski lodge that hasn't been shot to ribbons and wait for the Statesman plane to collect them. They look after their injuries, all minor, thankfully, and Whiskey plunders the liquor cabinet, pouring them all stiff drinks.

Ginger barely sips at hers. She has eyes only for Harry. "You used it, didn't you?"

Eggsy is sitting on a long couch the color of a sinfully expensive Bordeaux. He's close enough to Harry that they could reach out and touch each other, but far enough away so no one watching them will get the wrong idea.

It's close enough that he can smell the blood drying on Harry's sleeve.

Everyone turns to look at Harry after Ginger makes her pronouncement. Merlin seems to hold his breath. Eggsy feels something ratchet tight inside his stomach, and he has a wild urge to blurt something out loud. Any words will do, just so long as he can prevent Harry from responding.

But Harry seems unperturbed by Ginger's accusation. "If I hadn't," he says calmly, "we would all be dead right now." He looks briefly over at Eggsy.

The knot in Eggsy's gut just gets tighter at that. "What the fuck are you on about?" he demands.

At the same time, Ginger says, "It affected you, didn't it?"

In the ensuing silence, Eggsy's question seems utterly ludicrous. He wants to yell at Ginger to take it back, as though her saying it out loud somehow makes it real.

As though he doesn't know that the blood on Harry's sleeve didn't come from some bad guy, but from Harry himself.

"It did," Harry says. He still seems perfectly calm, but Eggsy, sitting so close, can see the dangerous tension in his jaw.

No one speaks. Eggsy glances down at his drink, but his insides are pulled too taut with dread to even think about actually swallowing anything. He tries not to think of the first time he saw Harry after the fight, the blood streaked across his mouth and chin, wet on his sleeve where he had dragged it over his face.

He had thought then that someone had punched Harry in the face, maybe one of Poppy's thugs or even Charlie himself before Eggsy confronted him. He hadn't let himself think beyond that, or question what he saw.

"Nosebleed," Ginger says. "Headache too?"

Harry doesn't answer that, and Eggsy feels like retching.

Whiskey looks at him with amazement. "What did you do?"

Harry's mouth thins out, his refusal plain to see. Eggsy doesn't want to know -- but at the same time he clamours for information, for knowledge. This thing Harry can do this, this wonderful, insane, impossible, terrifying thing…

It's Merlin who betrays him. "Don't you know? He stopped the car of your ski lift from falling."

Eggsy blinks in shock. That was Harry?

"No," Whiskey says flatly. "I'm sorry, but no."

Merlin turns toward him. "Well, what did you think? That you were somehow magically prevented from crashing into the ground?"

"The cable…" Eggsy starts to say. But right away he stops. Up there when it seemed like he was only seconds away from death, he hadn't _thought_ anything. He had _felt_ terrified, angry, frantic. But as for rational thought? Fuck no.

He thinks about it now, though. The cable itself, the line holding the car high above the ground, pulling it up the mountain, had been cut. Charlie's doing. That was why the car had started to fall. But what had stopped it? The shorn cable? There was nothing for it to snag, nothing for it to hook onto, nothing to slow or stop their fall. Nothing to keep him and Whiskey from smashing into the mountain and becoming red smears on the snow.

Nothing except Harry. And this incredible thing Harry can now do with his mind.

And like a punch to the face, he's struck with a sudden burst of revelation. Harry saved his life out there. And that act didn't come without a cost. The blood he saw on Harry's face, the blood drying on his sleeve, is proof enough of that.

"You nearly got yourself killed," Merlin says. His words are clipped, his voice tight. It's a tone Eggsy heard during the Lancelot trials whenever someone did something spectacularly stupid. Usually it was followed by a command for the idiot in question to pack up their things and go home, their chance at a knighthood gone forever.

"Doing that… You left yourself open to attack," Merlin says, pressing his own attack. It must have been horrible for him to sit here in this very lodge, watching them all, convinced he was about to watch his friend die for the second time.

"It was a calculated risk," Harry replies. "One I felt was worth it." He's visibly on edge now, his gaze darting from Merlin to Whiskey to Ginger, and back again to Merlin.

Eggsy would be affronted at being ignored, but then he decides it's a mark of trust. Harry doesn't know what to expect from the others. But he has no worries about Eggsy sitting by his side.

Nor should he.

"I don't know what you all are so upset about," Eggsy chimes in, rising to Harry's defence. He puts his drink on the wood coffee table and turns earnestly toward Ginger. "If he hadn't done it, me and Whiskey woulda been fucking toast. You make it sound like it's the end of the world."

They all look at him, and he sees instantly by the look on Ginger's face that he's made a huge mistake. He's just handed her the perfect opportunity.

"Not the end of the world," she says. "Just the end of your friend."

Eggsy blinks at that. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"I mean," she says, "that every time he uses it, it kills him a little bit faster."

The bottom falls out of Eggsy's stomach. In his mind he sees again the blood on Harry's face. And Ginger saying, _Nosebleed. Headache too?_

Harry thunks his glass down, the one he hasn't even touched, and stands up. "I will not be discussed as though I am not present," he says coldly. "Or like I am a lab rat, although I give you full marks for trying to turn me into one." He gives Ginger a look that could level tall buildings -- something he is apparently capable of now. "If you wish to hold this conversation, you can do so later, when I am actually not here."

Eggsy bites his lip, torn between wanting to defend Harry again -- what's all this shit about a lab rat? -- and the concern over what this whole telekinesis thing is doing to him. 

Before he can decide what to do, though, Merlin speaks up. "No," he says. "We're going to talk about it now. And if you don't like it, you're going to have to _make_ me stop."

For a long moment they stare at each other, two old friends who have been through things Eggsy can't even imagine. Two determined wills squaring off, neither one prepared to back down.

"If you want to kill yourself, by all means go ahead," Merlin says. "But you won't do it on my watch."

Eggsy leaps to his feet. "Would someone fucking answer me? What are you talking about?"

Without looking away from Harry, Merlin says, "I'm sure Ginger can answer this better than I can. I only got to read a part of her files. But what I saw was incontrovertible. Harry's new… ability seems to be killing him."

He doesn't actually choose to sit down again; his legs just sort of fold beneath him, dropping him back onto the couch. His whole body has gone numb, so all he can feel is the pounding of his heart.

It can't be true. It can't. He can't lose Harry again. Not after just getting him back. It's too unfair, too fucking cruel.

"Sit down," Merlin says. He still gives the impression of someone who refuses to back down, but his voice is softer now. "Please."

Harry looks at each of them. But it's not until he turns slightly to look down at Eggsy that his rigid posture slumps a little in defeat. Reluctantly he sits back down, although he refuses to look at Merlin.

"I saw the charts," Merlin says. "The EEGs. The CAT scans."

Startled, Eggsy glances quickly at Ginger. He can't imagine Harry willingly submitting to such things. They must have drugged him somehow, something in his food maybe. Treating him exactly like the lab rat he had accused them of. The thought of it burns through Eggsy, reminding him of the injustice of the whole situation. Statesman might be their ally, but he's never going to forget how they treated Harry.

And he sure as fuck isn't going to forgive.

Yet he can't quite blame them. Telekinesis, what the fuck? It only exists in the movies and comic books. It's not… Well, it's not fucking _real_.

Except it is. Harry used it to save his life out there on the mountain. Had apparently used it more than once trying to escape the Statesman facilities.

And every time he uses it, it kills him a little more.

"The human brain isn't meant to function this way," Ginger says. She shakes her head, her expression long with sorrow. "We don't even really understand what we're looking at, but there can be no mistake. After each use, there is more brain damage."

Eggsy closes his eyes. Brain damage. He thinks he might actually be sick, just lean over and vomit between his not-so-shiny-anymore Oxfords.

Does Harry know? Did he know before today, before Ginger uttered those terrible words? It seems impossible that he couldn't know something was wrong. Yet he had still used his terrible new talent today, wielding it to save Eggsy's life.

_It's killing him…and I helped._

"We can't—" Ginger starts to say, and then she stops. Eggsy opens his eyes and sees both her and Whiskey sitting there with their gaze half-focused. Like they're listening to something only they can hear.

"Our ride is here," Whiskey says. He stands up.

Quickly Eggsy looks over at Harry. He isn't surprised to see the relief on Harry's face at having this conversation come to an end. It must have been excruciating for him to sit here and listen while they talked about him.

_Like a lab rat._

He wants to tell Harry that he shouldn't have done it. Nothing is worth his own life. Certainly not the life of one fuck-up from the estates, a thief with a history, a young man who is still trying to do something good with his life.

But no words come. He can't say anything as they all stand up and look out the window of the ski lodge. He can hear the measured beat of a chopper now, the extraction team arriving at last.

He has no idea what happens now. Ginger and Whiskey will go back to Kentucky, of course. But what of him and Merlin? What of Harry? They have nothing to go back to. Kingsman needs to be rebuilt from the ground up. The shop needs to be rebuilt. Agents and staff will need to be replaced. There will be endless meetings, round after round of debate and bickering.

But first there will be funerals.

It's all too much, thinking about it. He can't deal with any of that right now. Not when all he can think about is Harry, and the blood on his sleeve.

****

Champ lets them take a plane so they can get back to England. Once they're in the air, Merlin makes contact with Roxy and they briefly discuss what's going on over there. She's made great strides forward already, gathering everyone who's left, taking steps to hide those things that require hiding both at the Savile Row site and at the mansion, and arranging living space for those agents and staff who now find themselves homeless.

She's also sent a couple agents out to check some of their safe houses, and make sure they're still actually safe. So far the results are encouraging. "You can stay at one of them," she says. "I'll make sure everything is ready."

"Excellent work, Lancelot," Merlin says.

"That's aces, Rox," Eggsy says.

"Thanks," Roxy says. She sounds exhausted, but Eggsy knows from experience that she can keep going for some time. She's got reserves of strength she herself doesn't even know about yet.

"It's good to have you back, Harry," she says.

Merlin looks sharply at Harry at this, but Harry pretends not to notice. "Thank you," he says politely.

Eggsy frowns. He doesn't like that look on Merlin's face. Like he's thinking maybe Harry shouldn't be allowed back, or something. Like he's thinking way too much.

Off Merlin's suggestion, he heads to the galley to see what kind of food is there. He heats up three of the pre-made meals, a little surprised to discover that he's actually pretty hungry. The three of them eat in silence, the plane on autopilot, each of them focused on their food.

It's incredibly uncomfortable.

When they're done eating Eggsy takes the rubbish back to the galley. He goes slowly as he cleans up, thinking he'll give Harry and Merlin a chance to talk in private.

It's not until he's almost done that he hears the quiet murmur of voices.

"I know you're angry with me, but I only did what I thought was right," Merlin says. 

"I know you did," Harry replies.

"I _am_ glad you're alive," Merlin says. 

Harry doesn't answer.

In the silence that follows, Eggsy hardly dares to breathe. He stands frozen, a tray in one hand, the other reaching above his head for a cabinet door.

"Where is Eggsy?" Merlin asks. 

"Probably still in the galley trying to pretend he can't hear us talking," Harry says dryly.

Eggsy's face flames. He's got a choice now. He can go out there and admit he's overheard, or he can pretend he didn't and let them keep their dignity.

He slides the tray in the cabinet and lets the door fall shut, hoping it'll make a bang and announce his imminent return.

It doesn't, of course. Like the Kingsman jet, everything on the Statesman plane is designed for comfort and luxury. No rude, loud bangs allowed.

He leaves the galley, but before he returns to the main cabin, he swings by the loo. There he stands in front of the mirror and gives his reflection a long stare. Stubble lines his cheeks and jaw, and there are dark circles beneath his eyes. There's a scabbed-over cut across one cheekbone, and another scrape on his forehead. His hair is a wreck, badly in need of a wash. Dirt and dried blood stain his collar.

He's a complete mess.

There is an ample supply of luxurious toiletries in the loo, which is of course enormous, exactly what Eggsy would expect from Statesman. But to get really cleaned up, he'll need more time than he's willing to give right now. So he settles for dragging a comb through his hair and washing his face and neck, then unwrapping one of the toothbrushes and brushing his teeth.

Both Harry and Merlin look up when he enters the main cabin. It's obvious they've been sitting there in awkward silence this whole time, waiting for him to get back. Merlin seems relieved, and he inhales deeply as he stands up. "I better check on our flight path," he says. He heads for the cockpit.

Eggsy bites the inside of his cheek, burning with embarrassment. It couldn't be more clear that Merlin was only waiting for him to get back before fleeing. That he didn't want Harry to be left alone, not even for a little while.

Harry himself doesn't seem particularly bothered, though, which makes Eggsy feel a little bit better. He takes his former seat, across from Harry. "They got a nice loo," he says. "Ours is better, though."

Then he kind of winces, because he doesn't know if any of the Kingsman jets survived the destruction of the mansion. Hell, he doesn't know if _anything_ survived. An awful lot of stuff was underground, some of it quite far underground, but that might not mean much. Even if those things weren't outright destroyed, they'll be buried under a mountain of debris. It'll take ages to sort out what's salvageable and what's destined for the scrap heap.

Thankfully Harry doesn't respond, saving him from embarrassing himself still further.

The silence draws out between them. Harry knows most of it all by now, the quick version of what happened on V-Day, that Eggsy is Galahad, Kingsman getting blown to hell. Merlin was the one to fill him in, thankfully, because Eggsy really isn't sure he could have done it.

This right here is his first real chance to be alone with Harry since they found him in that cell. It ought to be a wonderful occasion, but instead Eggsy feels unaccountably anxious. Like he would rather be anywhere but here.

Quickly he casts about for something to talk about. He's dreamed about this moment -- literally -- for months, but now that it's finally here, he can't think of one single thing to say. Nothing is like he imagined it. Kingsman's destruction. Harry missing an eye. Statesman. The fact that Harry can now move things using only his mind.

And it's killing him. 

The thing is, Harry doesn't _look_ like he's dying. He's got that pale complexion of someone who's been away from the sun for too long, but otherwise he seems healthy enough. Still, Eggsy doesn't doubt for a second what Merlin said. 

The thought of it sends a quiver of terror down his spine. He can't lose Harry again. Not after just getting him back.

And he thinks then of all the things he didn't get to say after V-Day, all the things he didn't get to do. He's had a lot of regrets since that terrible day, but when it comes to Harry, one looms larger than all the others.

So he takes a deep breath, looks up at Harry, and he says, "I'm sorry."

Just as Harry says, "I owe you an apology."

Startled, Eggsy says, "Why?"

Right as Harry says, "For what?"

It could be funny, except it isn't. There ain't nothing funny about any of this.

So Eggsy sits back and he makes a little gesture for Harry to go on, determined to keep his mouth shut this time.

Harry nods a little. He looks tired, as worn out as all of them by everything that's happened since they left Kentucky. But he faces Eggsy head on as he says, "I've had a lot of time to think about our last conversation, and what happened that day. A lot of time for regret." He pauses, letting those words sink in.

"I never wanted you to think you were only an obligation to me. Or to make it seem as though you were somehow _less_." Harry pauses again, and this time Eggsy sees him take a deep breath. "That was never what I thought. You have always been…more. And I'm very sorry for what I said."

For months now Eggsy has told himself this very thing. That Harry didn't mean his words that day. _Can't you see that everything I've done is about repaying him?_ Telling himself Harry didn't mean what they sounded like, that it was just something hurtful and hateful, the kind of awful thing people hurl at each other when they're arguing. He's done such a good job of it that he's almost convinced himself, too.

Hearing it out loud then, having it made actual truth, sends hot shame rushing through him. It washes away all his good intentions, dissolves all the words he used to think he would say if he ever got to talk to Harry again about that day.

"You should be," he says. "You were a total dick."

Harry doesn't even flinch. "Yes, I was," he says. "But then, so were you."

Eggsy can't deny this. "Yeah," he says. He'd had his reasons, but then, so had Harry. 

They're both pretty fucked up, when it comes right down to it.

"And I'm sorry, too," he says. "I shouldn't'a said them things."

They gaze at each other for a moment, long enough for Eggsy to start to feel uncomfortable, to wish he was anywhere but here. Then Harry smiles at him a little, achingly reminiscent of his old smiles, his eye softening with warmth behind the borrowed glasses.

It fucking _hurts_ to see that smile. Like he's going to splinter into pieces or something. He actually hunches his shoulders against that pain, against the aching desire of all those long months that came before, when he would have given anything to see Harry smiling at him again.

"I wish I'd known," he says. "I would've…" It breaks his heart to think of Harry locked away all those months he was out there being the best Kingsman he could be.

"I know," Harry says. "I never doubted that."

Eggsy breathes a little easier at those words. Logically he had known Harry couldn't blame him for abandoning him to Statesman, but it still makes a world of difference to know it's true.

"So this…this thing you can do…" He can't bring himself to actually say the word _telekinesis_. "How did you find out you could do it?"

Harry's expression hardens. He's silent for so long that Eggsy kicks himself for asking such a horrid question, for bringing up what are obviously painful memories. But then Harry surprises him by starting to talk.

"I didn't know who they were, although I had my suspicions. And they didn't know me, either. All they knew was the ID I had on me, for Henry DeVere, was an alias." Harry stares into the middle distance, remembering events months past.

"I was upset over my eye, and terribly afraid that my last words to Kingsman hadn't been heard, or heeded. I needed to know what had happened with Valentine and V-Day. And…" He pauses, and glances up ever so briefly at Eggsy. "And with you."

Eggsy's heart squeezes painfully in his chest. He had spent so long thinking about Harry, wondering about him, and all along Harry had been doing the same thing.

"I needed to get out," Harry says. "That was the one thing I knew for certain. I wasn't supposed to be up and moving around yet, but I didn't let that stop me. I thought they would have someone stationed outside my room in case I did try to escape. But they didn't. They had locked the door instead."

Eggsy can only imagine it: the growing sense of urgency, the desperate clamour for information, to know what happened to Kingsman and the rest of the world, the need for escape. Only to find himself thwarted by something as simple as a locked door.

"I was so angry," Harry says. His voice is tight with remembered emotion. "I knew they didn't trust me, but it hadn't occurred to me until then that I was a prisoner. I stared at the door and imagined it flying open so I could get out. And I just…" He frowns. "I simply knew I could do it. So I did."

He shakes his head. "I was so shocked that it worked that I was still standing there when they came rushing in with a needle full of sedatives."

Even though it happened months ago and there is no changing it, Eggsy still feels sick to his stomach. In the end, it was Harry's all-too human reaction to his decidedly non-human ability that had doomed him to captivity in a padded cell. Had he kept going when he had the chance, used his incredible new talent to unlock doors and mentally shove away anyone who tried to intervene, he could have made his escape that very day.

He could have found his way home again.

He shouldn't have asked, Eggsy thinks. But there are so many things he needs to know, so many questions that need answering.

"Does it hurt when you do it?"

"Not at first," Harry says.

Just those three words are enough to make Eggsy flinch. Oh God, oh _fuck_ , Ginger and Merlin were right.

"You shouldn't do it again," he says in a rush, and he's never meant anything more. "And you shouldn't've used it back there." _I ain't worth it_ , he wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat. All he can do is shake his head.

Anger sparks in Harry's remaining eye, and Eggsy knows instantly that he's said the wrong thing. The air between them goes frigid with cold. "I have spent the last however many fucking months trapped in that place," Harry says, "either being treated like a unique lab specimen in a petri dish, or being handled with care as though I were dangerous."

Eggsy blinks. As much as he wants to hate Statesman for what they did, he can't really blame them for that last one. Harry _is_ dangerous. And they would surely have known that. No one who walked out of that blood-soaked church could have been anything _but_ dangerous. Not even Valentine's psycho mind-ray could have been enough to enable a regular person to do what Harry did. Only a true killer could have survived in there.

But he can't say that, though. And at any rate, there isn't a chance. Harry goes on talking, his jaw tight with repressed fury. 

"I am fucking _tired_ of being under other people's control," Harry grates. "I will do as I please, and that includes _this_."

There are no grand gestures. Harry doesn't even move at all, actually. But in the blink of an eye, the interior of the plane falls into sheer chaos.

The window shades are yanked down hard enough to fall to the floor. Every overhead bin clatters open at once. And in the middle of the main cabin, the sleek wooden table parts in two, the cover lifting off to reveal all the weaponry hidden beneath.

Terror widens Eggsy's eyes. He's seen the shit stashed away there, the guns and knives and grenades and all kinds of things that should definitely _not_ fall into the hands of an enraged telekinetic.

But that's just it, innit? Harry doesn't need his hands for this.

The knives just sort of float upward, bobbling a little in midair. Eggsy watches, stricken with fear, his heart going a mile a minute. He doesn't dare shout out loud, even though he's not sure he could. He doesn't want to alert Merlin, doesn't want anyone to witness this.

Harry glares at the knives. They hang there for a moment longer, two feet above the display case where they were resting only seconds ago. Then one by one, following each other so fast they are little more than a blur, they're hurled down the length of the cabin. One by one they thud into the lavatory door, where Eggsy glowered at his reflection in what now feels like another life.

Panic races through him. All he can think is that they're on a fucking _airplane_ and what happens if this thing in Harry's head gets out of control? What happens if Harry can't stop it?

On the floor, the broken window shades rattle and twitch. The guns jump a little in their cradles, and that's when Eggsy decides enough is enough. 

Through his mounting alarm, he does the only thing he can think of. He lunges across the aisle, seizes Harry's face in both hands, and kisses him. It's ridiculous, it's dangerous as fuck, but it's also just drastic enough that it might work.

And to his amazement, it _does_ work. He hears the last of the knives thump to the floor. For a moment it's just him leaning down, his lips cool on Harry's -- then Harry's hands rise to clutch his back, and he's being kissed until he's breathless.

He holds nothing back. This is all he's wanted to do since that morning in the Black Prince. He's dreamed of this for months, thought of it with lust, with grief, with bitter black anger that it would never happen.

But it's really happening. Harry rises to his feet, still holding him, and Eggsy backs up, giving him room. His hands slide down Harry's shoulders and take hold of his arms. The kiss goes on, warm and slow now, heat rising between them. Harry tastes like the chocolate he had for pudding after their dinner, a sweetness that Eggsy revels in.

He leans in, deepening the kiss, and suddenly his mouth is filled with the tang of copper. Startled, he flinches back and opens his eyes.

Cold horror douses his ardour. He sees the blood on Harry's lip, and he knows it's stained on his own too; he can still taste it.

"Oh my God," he breathes. This isn't just a nosebleed. This is terrifying, blood running down Harry's face from his nose. He's gone even paler than before, his eye bloodshot and streaked with red.

Harry raises a trembling hand to touch his mouth. "Shit," he says.

Eggsy fights the urge to burst into hysterical laughter.

He looks around wildly, not having the faintest idea what to do first. He sees the guns resting askew in their cradles, the window shades on the floor. He stares at the cockpit door, and thinks that above all else he can't let Merlin see any of this.

Harry tilts his head back, trying to slow the flow of blood from his nose. It's smeared on his fingers now; his hand is still shaking, the way Ryan's grandma's used to do, back before they put her in the nursing home.

"What did you do?" Eggsy hears his voice crack. "Why did you do that? You can't, Harry, you can't, promise me you won't ever do that again, promise me!"

Harry nods. Maybe. It's hard to tell.

Eggsy spins around and runs toward the lav. He has to wrench the door open; it's kind of jammed shut from the force of all the knives currently sticking out of it. He'll have to take them out, he reminds himself, so Merlin doesn't see. Although he doesn't know what the fuck he can do to hide the holes they'll leave behind.

He grabs one of the soft flannels stacked in a cabinet above the sink and wets it down. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, wild-eyed and white with panic, then he's out the door again, hurrying back to where Harry is slumped in his former seat.

"Here," Eggsy says.

The bleeding has stopped, but Harry's hand still hovers over his mouth, still trembling. Eggsy has to take hold of his wrist and gently lower his arm down.

Harry doesn't resist. It's good that he doesn't, but that's also a very bad sign.

As gently as possible, Eggsy wipes away the blood. It fouls the flannel and he turns it around and inside out, seeking clean spots so he's not just smearing around the same mess. "It's okay," he says. "It'll be okay." He keeps his voice pitched low; by the way Harry is wincing, he must have one hell of a headache.

When he's done the best he can, he backs away, holding the blood-stained flannel. "You should lay down," he says.

Harry nods, the tiniest of movements. After his earlier behaviour, this meek acceptance fills Eggsy with foreboding.

He heads for the lav again. He rinses the flannel out and drapes it over the edge of the counter. He washes his hands and dries them quickly, trying not to notice the tremor in his own hands. It's funny how he can't actually feel them shaking, like he's become separated from his body through the sheer force of his fright.

When he returns to the main cabin, Harry is still sitting right where Eggsy left him. His head is tipped back against the headrest and he watches Eggsy's progress toward him through a single, bloodshot eye.

Eggsy looks at him and for a terrible moment he thinks he might actually throw up. Harry is dying, literally _dying by inches_ right in front of him, and there's not one fucking thing he can do about it.

Well, maybe there is one thing. He takes a deep breath, forcing back the trembling tears, and he moves forward. He finds the dimmer switch on the controls, and dims the lights, leaving only enough illumination that he'll be able to see what he's doing when he cleans up the mess Harry made.

He sits down again, not across from Harry this time, but next to him, in the seat on his right. "You okay?"

Harry sighs. "Yes." He doesn't seem embarrassed by his little fit earlier, but in the dim light, it's hard to tell.

"I mean it, Harry. You can't do that again. You get me?"

"I do," Harry says. "And I won't. I promise."

"You better mean that," Eggsy warns, although it's not exactly like he's got any leverage he can truly threaten Harry with. "And don't you dare go using it on something stupid like getting the TV remote, either. That's what you got me for."

Harry had started to smile at the comment about the remote, but when Eggsy says that last bit about having him, he freezes. Realising what he just said, Eggsy feels a rush of heat flood his cheeks. Shit. Shit _fuck._

"I mean... If you..." Fuck! The problem is he knows exactly what he meant, and he meant every word. But it's way too soon. They aren't even back in England yet. This is the first time they've really talked since that terrible day last June when they yelled at each other in Harry's loo. And already he's gone and fucked it all up.

He tries again. "I just mean..."

"I know what you mean," Harry says quietly. "At least I hope I do."

Heat races through Eggsy's entire body this time. Holy shit. He can hardly believe what Harry just said.

And all that it means.

Their kiss was real then. It wasn't just Harry reacting to a surprising turn of events, or clinging to him because he had missed human companionship so much during his captivity. It was entirely mutual, something they both wanted.

Something to think about for the future. Something to hope for.

"You do," Eggsy says.

A spark kindles in Harry's remaining eye, warmth and affection and maybe something more. It's the way he looked at Eggsy on that one night they had, while they were mixing martinis and laughing over stupid things. The night he wanted so badly to kiss Harry, to steal out of bed and creep under cover of darkness into Harry's room and then his bed.

But they can't talk about it now. Not when Merlin could come back at any moment. Harry needs to rest. Eggsy needs to clean up the evidence of what happened here.

He needs some time to think.

"You should lie down," he says. There are couches on the Statesman jet, upholstered in soft leather rather than tartan, but still plenty comfortable. "Get some rest."

He thinks Harry might argue, might get all stubborn again about being told what to do, but he's either too worn out to care, or else he doesn't mind when Eggsy is the one to say it. Whatever the reason, he gives in without a protest. "All right."

"You want some aspirin? Some water?" he asks. He suddenly feels guilty for taking so long to ask such a simple question. Harry must have a terrible headache now after what he did.

"I'm fine," Harry says. "I just need to sleep." He manages a smile, completely fake but somehow endearing anyway. "You're right."

He's given in, but is still trying to do things his way. And Eggsy can't do anything but let him have that little victory. Because really when it comes down to it, he can't deny Harry anything.

So he stands up and moves into the aisle so Harry can move past him, over to the couch. He watches as Harry rather gingerly lies down, and resists a ridiculous urge to hover and fuss. Instead he does nothing, even deliberately looks the other way while Harry stretches out and tries to get comfortable.

"I'm sorry," Harry says, his voice very low.

Eggsy turns toward him then. "It's okay," he says. He smiles, all reassuring and comforting. Or so he hopes.

Harry must be really exhausted, because he seems to fall asleep in no time. Eggsy sits on the couch across from him with his heartrate slowly returning to normal and wonders just what the fuck he's going to do next.

One thing is clear. He's got to fix the mess Harry made.

Some of it is easy. He re-hangs most of the window shades, but some of them are beyond repair, the hardware that connects them to the windows too twisted to be reused. Those he stashes in an empty cabinet in the galley. Merlin might not even notice some of them are missing, but if he does, Eggsy will tell him that he yanked them down himself, that Harry needed to see the sky. He'll say he got carried away, got a little too aggressive about it. He doesn't mind if Merlin scolds him; he can take it.

The knives are a little hard to pry out of the lav door, and the door itself is damaged beyond repair. There's absolutely no way to hide it, and Eggsy thinks fast as he puts them all away again in the case hidden beneath the table. He did it, he'll say. Or maybe he and Harry both did, having a little target practise, a little bit of fun. Maybe it was a little contest they had, to see who could do the best. Or something like that. Whatever. He'll work out the details later.

The bloody flannel he buries in the trash. Far down where Merlin won't ever find it.

And then there's nothing to do but wait for the flight to be over, for them to land, to start the next phase of whatever the hell this all is.

But first he takes a blanket down from one of the overhead compartments, and he drapes it over Harry as he sleeps.

****

The safe house Roxy has made available for them turns out to be just a regular old flat in Hackney. A bit cheaper than the usual Kingsman standard, maybe, but Eggsy guesses that's to keep away any suspicious eyes.

Not that he gives a shit. He's lost his home and everything he owns. The safe house could be a one-room flat over a stinky laundromat and he wouldn't care. It's a relief to walk into a place where he knows he doesn't have to look over his shoulder. Somewhere stocked with toothpaste and non-perishable food, where clothing hangs in the closet in a variety of sizes guaranteed to fit most men.

A place where he can finally rest.

After their initial exploration, the three of them stand around in the living room. Eggsy's already seen that there are only two bedrooms, but the couch pulls out into a bed, so that's that for accommodations. Nobody volunteers to sleep on the couch. Nobody says anything at all.

The silence draws out, growing more awkward by the second. Merlin won't look at Harry. Harry gazes at a fixed point near the hallway, ignoring them both. Eggsy shoves his hands in his pockets and wishes he was invisible.

At last Merlin says, "We have a lot to do tomorrow. We should try and get some rest tonight."

This is very true, but Eggsy can't for the life of him imagine getting much sleep tonight, and not just because he slept on the plane. Now that he's back in England, he keeps thinking about the destruction he saw, the rubble on Savile Row, the fires burning in Stanhope Mews. He trusts Roxy and he believes her when she says this place is safe -- but he still wonders, and he worries.

Merlin maybe sees the scepticism on his face, because he says, not unkindly, "Get some sleep, Eggsy. Turn your phone off and just try to relax."

Eggsy makes himself shrug. "Yeah," he says.

"I'll see you at 8:00," Merlin says. He hesitates, then looks at Harry and nods.

Harry doesn't say anything. He doesn't even look at them. He just heads for the hall and one of the bedrooms in the back of the flat.

Eggsy glances at Merlin, then follows him. He feels kind of bad abandoning Merlin to the probably-not-so-tender mercies of the couch, but not bad enough to change his mind. He can keep a closer eye on Harry if he's, well, closer. This way he can hopefully hear if Harry gets up in the middle of the night, or if something goes wrong.

The thought sends a chill through him. Can Harry use his new power unknowingly in his sleep? If he has a bad enough nightmare, will the telekinesis manifest on its own?

The hallway ends in three doors; two tiny bedrooms and a bathroom not much bigger than a closet. Harry looks at him, then chooses the door on the left. He goes inside, but leaves the door open.

Eggsy is momentarily surprised. But he quickly recovers. 

His mind made up, he doesn't hesitate. He goes inside and shuts the door behind him.

Harry stops before the bed and turns to look at him. "What are you doing in here?"

Mortified, Eggsy freezes. "I thought…" Oh fuck. He had thought the open door was an invitation. He thinks fast. "I figured we could share, let Merlin have the other room."

It's a good save. He's proud of it.

"You know perfectly well that Merlin intends to stay in the living room so neither of us can sneak out in the middle of the night," Harry says.

This is very true, but Eggsy doesn't focus on the words. Instead he watches the way Harry looks down as he speaks, either unable or unwilling to look Eggsy in the eye. Maybe he's embarrassed by his little tantrum on the plane. Or maybe he's only offering the rebuttal through force of habit, and he doesn't really mean it.

Eggsy thinks it's the latter. At least, he really hopes that's what it is.

Testing that theory, he takes a step closer, moving away from the closed door at his back. He feels weirdly hot all over, but he doesn't let that stop him. "You know how I said on the plane that you had me? Well, here I am."

Harry looks up at that, touched and uncertain, like he doesn't know what to do next. In Eggsy's memories of him, he's always so confident, so sure of himself. Seeing him like this is a kick in the stomach.

"Eggsy, I –" Harry stops, obviously unsure how to finish that sentence.

"I'll go if you want," he says. He really will, too, even though he'll hate to leave. But maybe Harry needs that right now. Maybe he needs some time to work through everything that's happened today, everything he's learned about the destruction of Kingsman.

Then again, Harry's been alone for far too long, and not by choice. Maybe the best thing for him right now is to be with someone, to realise he's not isolated anymore.

He can see the indecision on Harry's face. Funny how he's easier to read now that he's lost an eye. 

Eggsy stands perfectly still, waiting to find out what it's going to be.

"You're free to stay if you like," Harry finally says. Making it sound as though it were Eggsy's choice, rather than anything to do with his own wishes.

Eggsy knows better, though.

Harry's been a spy for too long; and besides, he was probably never the type of person to talk easily about something as personal as feelings. Not that Eggsy will ever know. And now, after fuck knows how long spent in solitary confinement, it's probably even harder for Harry to talk about this kind of stuff. Maybe even impossible.

This is the best he's going to get.

That's fine. He can deal with it. He ain't the best at this kind of thing either, as Roxy has pointed out. It sucks to hear, but he knows she's right. Hell, he even knows how it happened, too. Growing up in that flat with Dean, hearing over and over how only pussies cried or got all sensitive about stuff. Too many years of having to hide what he was truly thinking and feeling have given him a creeping horror of being honest about his own emotions. He can't ever shake that old sensation of doing something wrong, even dirty.

And that pisses him off. It isn't supposed to be this way. Fuck Dean anyway. He's long gone from Eggsy's life. He can't make Eggsy do anything he doesn't want to do anymore.

"I'll stay," he says. Like there was ever any doubt what he would say.

Harry's shoulders slump a little, some tension Eggsy hadn't even seen draining from him. He nods, what might be an attempt at a smile touching his mouth. "All right. But I don't expect—" He fumbles to another uncharacteristic halt.

Now it's Eggsy's turn to look away. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about sex, but yeah, he knows it ain't happening. And not just because Merlin's here, too. Too much has happened in too short a time. They've just found each other again after months of cruel separation. One kiss doesn't automatically equal a night of sex. There's still too much to talk about, too many things they need to figure out.

"No, I know," he says quickly, his gaze on the floor. "And just so you know, I don't expect nothing, either."

Harry doesn't answer. He just nods, ever so faintly, still not looking directly at Eggsy. And after a moment of extremely uncomfortable silence, he makes a gesture toward the door. Without a word, he leaves.

He's only gone to the loo, Eggsy knows. But it's still weirdly distressing to find himself alone again, Harry vanished. Like he was never there at all. Like he was just some figment of Eggsy's imagination, conjured up by the months of loneliness and grief and the horrors of the past couple days.

But he was there. He _is_ here. And he'll be back.

After a little while he feels stupid just standing there, so he starts exploring the room. It's small and there's not much to see, but it helps pass the time and keep his mind off things he shouldn't be thinking about. He checks out the firmness of the mattress, peers in the tiny closet and nods with approval at the clothes hanging there. He opens the drapes and studies the street below, looking for anyone who seems like they don't belong, anyone who might be a little too interested in this building and the people inside it.

"All clear?"

Eggsy jumps in fright; he hadn't heard Harry come back. "Yeah," he says as he turns from the window.

Harry looks ready for bed. He's washed up and stripped down to his dress shirt and trousers. His jacket and tie dangle from one hand. The black eyepatch is back in place, instead of the glasses Champ gave him.

"There's clothes," Eggsy says, gesturing at the closet. "There might be pyjamas?" He doesn't know; he didn't examine the contents of the dresser yet.

Harry glances down at himself with obvious distaste. "It would be nice to get rid of this."

Eggsy can't blame him. It's not just that Harry's old suit is bloodied and soiled from their fight against Poppy. It's the same suit he was wearing when he was forced to kill all those people. The same suit he was wearing when he died.

Harry walks over to the dresser. It's set opposite the bed, on the right-hand wall. He pulls open the top drawer and peers inside, then moves on to the drawer beneath that one.

Eggsy stays where he is by the window. He's very aware that he's currently standing on Harry's blind side. It's a sign of trust he isn't even sure he deserves. But it's one he has absolutely no intention of betraying.

On the third drawer Harry gets lucky. He pulls out a set of pyjamas, navy blue with narrow white pinstriping; the ubiquitous sideways K is embroidered on the front pocket. He holds them against his body, checking to see if they'll fit, then abruptly he looks up. He turns his head, searching for Eggsy.

Feeling like an insect under glass – or maybe one of Harry's butterflies – Eggsy doesn't move. He just says, "Looks like they'll be a good fit."

"Yes," Harry says quietly. He turns away, not to his right, but to the left, practically turning 180 degrees so now Eggsy is within his view. He crosses the short distance to the bed and drapes the pyjamas over the bedspread.

Recognising his cue, Eggsy clears his throat. "Anything my size in there?"

Harry looks up at him again. His expression is just as intense as before, but there is a more appraising quality to it. Eggsy can _feel_ himself being measured, even though the measuring tape is intangible. He wonders how badly Harry's depth perception has been altered by losing an eye; he saw a few signs of it during the firefight at Poppy's compound, but fortunately Harry adjusted quickly enough that it didn't seem to be much of a problem for him.

"Yes, I think there might be," Harry says.

"Good," Eggsy says. He starts forward, and tells himself not to be disappointed when Harry moves aside. It's just to give him room, to let him at the dresser so he can pick out a set of pyjamas for himself. He shouldn't read anything else into it.

But it's hard not to. He's a spy, trained to paranoia, to question everyone's motives and behaviour. And he can't help but wonder if Harry is truly all right with their physical proximity, or if he's lying through his teeth.

The question dogs him the whole time he's in the bathroom, unwrapping the plastic off a new toothbrush, washing his face, putting on the pyjamas that are in fact a bit too big. Maybe he ought to go across the hall when he's done, take the second bedroom like he was supposed to. Maybe he's pushing too hard, too fast.

Maybe he's fucking this all up.

In the hallway he pauses, glancing toward the living room. He wonders what Merlin thinks about all this, and even considers going out there to explain the situation, then decides he doesn't care. It doesn't matter what Merlin thinks. All that matters is what's happening here, with him and Harry.

Harry is standing awkwardly beside the bed when Eggsy returns, making him think of a long-ago night in Brixton, his first time with another bloke, neither of them wanting to be the first one to get on the bed. That night had ended well, both of them strung out from all the fucking and sleeping until nearly noon, but he has no such reassurance about tonight.

The best thing to do, he decides, is act like nothing's wrong. Like he's not worried that he'll wake up to a tempest of flying objects about his head, or that Harry will try to strangle him in his sleep. Like he's not at all concerned about the shit that'll move through his dreams and the inevitable jolting awake, a cry still lingering in his throat.

He tosses his shoes and dirty clothes in the corner, then throws back the covers. "I hope you don't got cold feet," he jokes.

A second later he could kick himself. He just gave Harry the perfect excuse to shut this whole thing down, and he hadn't even intended it.

But Harry, if he even realises the out he's been handed, lets it pass by. "You needn't worry," he says. "I'll keep them to myself."

"Good," Eggsy says in a too-hearty voice. He hates it, but he makes himself carry on anyway. "Do you snore?"

"No," Harry says, and there's the faintest undercurrent of amusement in his voice, even though he doesn't look even close to smiling.

"Me either," Eggsy says. "At least, that I know of."

"I'll be sure to let you know," Harry says, and yep, he's definitely relaxed now, his mouth quirking with dry humour.

Thrilled to see that reaction, Eggsy slides beneath the covers. He's done the right thing without even planning to. It gives him hope that things really _will_ be all right.

Harry turns off the lamp and gets in bed beside him. There's a few moments where they both shift around, getting comfortable, then silence falls over them.

Eggsy lies still, his eyes adjusting to the very dim light that filters in through the drapes. He listens to the sound of Harry breathing beside him. He can't really see Harry except as a dark shape next to him, but he can _feel_ him, the weight of him, the reality of him.

He used to imagine this sometimes, during his darkest moments, when it felt like the whole world was going mad and he was the most insane of them all. This right here, tonight, is nothing like those lunatic imaginings, but that's okay. Because this is better, far better.

This is actually happening. Harry is alive and they are back home in England. They are sharing a bed in a Kingsman safe house. And though the distance between them can be measured in more than mere inches, Eggsy feels safe and content for the first time in a very long time.

In the dark he could say anything and it would be all right.

He says, "Good night, Harry."

Harry is silent for a moment. Then he says, "Good night, Eggsy."

Eggsy closes his eyes. Sleeps.

*******

 

_II. will we burn inside the fires_

 

Harry wakes up to a sleep-heavy weight pressed against his back and warm breath on the back of his neck. A muscled arm is draped over him, a hand brushing lightly against his stomach almost, but not quite, enough to tickle.

He lies still for a few moments, recollecting himself and his situation. Savouring the knowledge that he is not alone. 

For six months he's been waking up like this, and it has yet to grow old. 

The bedroom is winter-dark; he has no idea what time it is. Still early, that much is obvious. Even without a clock, though, he's pretty sure the alarm will be going off soon.

Carefully he rolls onto his back. Eggsy makes a fuzzy noise as he's shifted about a little, but remains asleep. Harry isn't surprised; they were up late last night.

His eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness. The left one comes into focus first, technology rapidly achieving the same result his body is slower to produce. In the beginning he found the disparity disorienting and he struggled with headaches, but he adapted quickly enough, certainly faster than everyone except Eggsy had expected. Nowadays he scarcely notices it. 

Eggsy comes into view, asleep on his right side. The covers have slid down, exposing his bare left shoulder to the cool air of the bedroom. 

Harry thinks rather wistfully about reaching out with a mental hand and pulling the bedspread up over Eggsy's shoulder, a touch felt but not seen. It would be nice if he could do it, provide that warmth to Eggsy without disturbing his sleep. But he's not even tempted. No momentary comfort now is worth losing their future together.

He promised Eggsy on that first flight to England that he would never use his telekinesis again. It's a promise he's kept for six months.

It's a promise he intends to keep.

It's there, though. It's always there. The knowledge that he _could_ do it. That he could look at a person or an object and affect them just by thinking it. It's both terrifying and exhilarating -- although maybe the most frightening thing is how quickly these thoughts became normal.

On this one thing he agrees with Ginger and Statesman. Man was not meant to wield this kind of power.

He's been extremely lucky, everyone says. So far there doesn't seem to be any brain damage, but there is no question about future uses of his new ability. He might get away with it once, twice, even half a dozen times. But eventually the damage, the mental backlash that manifests in nosebleeds and headaches, will be too much. To the rest of the world it will look like a stroke or an aneurysm, but the truth will be far stranger. His own mind will kill him. 

So Harry resorts to the simplest of coping mechanisms: denial. If he doesn't wield the telekinesis, it can't harm him. Let it lie dormant in his mind for however many years are remaining to him.

Because he intends to live those years to their fullest.

Next to him Eggsy makes that muzzy noise again. He'll be awake soon. It's just as well. The alarm will be going off soon and they have a lot to do before the movers get here. 

Their current house is a rental, perfectly adequate for their needs, but it's never been _home_. Nearly everything is packed already. In one respect, the loss of the house in Stanhope Mews did them a favour; there simply hasn't been time since then to accumulate too many possessions. They've been eating takeaway for three days because the dishes are boxed up, and last night they took the bed apart and set the mattress on the floor. 

Eggsy moans a little, and for half a heartbeat Harry tenses with dread, thinking it's a sign of another nightmare. Then Eggsy moves, sliding one leg up against Harry's, and Harry relaxes again. 

"Time to get up," he murmurs. 

In response, Eggsy moans again.

"I suppose I shall just have to tell the movers to stuff you in a box," Harry says.

Eggsy wriggles closer, an impressive feat considering that they're already touching. "Do that and I won't give you your housewarming gift."

Harry smiles. Fogged by sleep, Eggsy's breath is not pleasant, but he doesn't care. He spent too long in that padded room thinking he might actually die without any meaningful contact with another human being. He will never again begrudge someone their morning breath, especially when he knows he's a prime offender himself.

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" he says.

Eggsy rolls his head on the pillow. In the dark, his eyes gleam, reflecting the scant light. He presses a kiss to Harry's jaw. "Timezzit?"

"I don't know," Harry replies. He could reach out and pick up the phone placed right beside the mattress, but that would mean exposing his arm to the chill air. Besides, he's comfortable right where he is.

"Then go back to sleep," Eggsy mutters.

Before Harry can respond, the alarm goes off. The space around them brightens as the phone comes to life.

Eggsy buries his face in the pillow, his cheek smushed against Harry's shoulder. "Fuck."

****

He's already in the shower when he realises that there is no soap.

Harry sighs. The steam from the hot water has nicely warmed the interior of the shower itself, but the instant he pulls the curtain aside, he'll be chilled and goosepimpled. Still, there's really no other option.

He throws back the shower curtain, and then utters a very undignified yelp upon finding himself inches away from Eggsy, who happens to be standing at the toilet, holding his prick in one hand. 

Eggsy practically screeches in shock. He narrowly avoids jumping back and spraying the room with piss. "What the _fuck_?" he yells.

"So sorry," Harry says dryly. Already he's recovering from his own fright, and getting cold while he's at it. "Apparently we already packed the soap from here." He says _we_ , even though he knows he didn't do it.

But that's how it is now. They are a _we_ , an _us_. They are in this together.

That's what Eggsy had said to him, just days after their return to England six months ago. When they were still reeling from the losses at Kingsman. When nobody quite knew whether they could completely trust Harry yet, or if he would even stick around long enough to earn their trust.

Only Eggsy had believed in him wholly, right from the start. Only Eggsy had never doubted him. And it was Eggsy who had stood beside him one afternoon, sharing an umbrella as the rain poured down and the first of the machines began removing the debris from what had once been a magnificent mansion. 

"Just so you know," Eggsy had said, "I ain't going anywhere. Whatever we do next, we're doing it together." He had turned to Harry, his hair curling in the damp, his tie perfectly knotted. "We're in this together, you get me?"

Harry had looked at him, this beautiful, vibrant young man standing in the rain with an old man wearing a borrowed suit and glasses with one lens blacked out. He had known a moment of helpless burning rage -- _how can you do this to me_ \-- and then he had leaned down and kissed Eggsy. 

It was a sweet kiss, and only their second one, but it hadn't lasted long. Warm rain had spilled down the back of Eggsy's collar as the umbrella tilted, and he had jumped back. But it was still a kiss, and Harry had known right then that he would do anything for more of them.

"Sorry about that," Eggsy says now. He reaches with his free hand for the bar of soap sitting beside the sink, and tosses it to Harry.

Harry catches it easily and starts to let the shower curtain drop, eager to take refuge in the steam again.

"Maybe I'll join you?" Eggsy offers.

"Then I suggest you hurry," Harry says, and lets the curtain fall. 

He barely has time to work up a lather with the soap before the shower curtain is pulled back again and Eggsy steps inside. He grins at Harry, his cock already starting to swell. 

There really isn't room in the tub for both of them, but somehow they make it work. Instantly the space gets much warmer, a heat that thrills Harry nearly as much as the sight of Eggsy's naked body.

He holds up his soapy hands. "May I?"

Eggsy tips his nose up in the air. "You may cleanse me," he says in an exaggeratedly posh accent.

With a smile, Harry does exactly that. He glides his hands over Eggsy's body, washing him with care. Water pours down his back and gets in his eyes, a minor nuisance that he's more than willing to endure in exchange for the reward of so much bare skin.

Eggsy stands still throughout it all, but his growing restlessness is evident. And when Harry finally takes hold of his cock in a soapy hand, he practically leaps forward. "Oh fuck."

"Mustn't forget this," Harry murmurs as he strokes up and down.

"N-no," Eggsy agrees, stuttering in time with the sway of his body.

Harry kisses him as the hot water pours down on them, and he would stay here forever if he could. These are the moments he loves most, when the world narrows its focus until it's just the two of them. When all else is forgotten. 

When there is only Eggsy.

****

Breakfast is leftover pastry from yesterday, eaten off paper plates; the dishes, of course, are already packed. Each box is numbered, and he and Eggsy both have the list stored on their phones, the better to make unpacking go quickly and (hopefully) painlessly.

Harry is not looking forward to it. He lived in that house in Stanhope Mews for thirty years. It was as familiar to him as any place could be. He could navigate it in the dark. He knew where everything was, where each of his hidden weapons was stored, the weak points where an enemy could force entry, the strong points where it could be defended. He had brought the occasional lover home for a one-night stand in his bed, played host to Merlin any number of times, and on a few momentous occasions, given large dinner parties for most of the Kingsman agents.

He had brought Eggsy to that house too. The short time they had together after the loyalty test, when he knelt beside an Eggsy who trembled against the ties binding him to the train tracks. He had taken Eggsy home without a moment's hesitation, and he had reveled in each hour they had spent together. And when they had at last separated for the night (which had in truth been the small hours of the next morning), he had led Eggsy to the guest room, to the bed he had only slept in himself a few times over the years. He had walked down the hall to his own room, but the steps had seemed to last an age, as though each one weighed more heavily than the last. And when the door had shut behind him, he had wondered with a pang just what would happen if he were to open it again and somehow find himself in the guest room, alone with Eggsy in the dark.

Now that house is gone. A new one will be raised in its place, of course, but Harry will not be the one who lives there. He and Eggsy have a home of their own now.

It's taken them enough time to find it. Weeks of combing through adverts, meeting with estate agents, going out on tours to this house or that one. Weeks of arguing, of bickering, of agreeing on one thing only to reverse their decision a couple days later. It's been frustrating, disheartening, stressful, and aggravating beyond belief.

But at last it's all over. Today they are moving into their new home.

Eggsy moves through the half-empty rooms, doing some last-minute cleaning, spray bottle in one hand, kitchen roll in the other. JB trots at his heels at first, but when he realises there isn't any food in this for him, he flops down onto his doggy bed and settles for watching Eggsy with soulful eyes.

Harry goes upstairs to pack the last of their things, toiletries mostly, and make sure they haven't forgotten anything. But first he makes a detour into the spare bedroom, where the walls have always been bare and his laptop sits atop on a cheap DIY desk.

Merlin will chide him for it, has even made one pointed comment already. "Kingsman can survive without you, you know." Leaving it unsaid that they have in fact already done so, and for quite some time. But Harry refuses to treat this day as if it were different from any other. Kingsman is his now. He owes it to them all -- to himself most of all -- to check in and make sure things are all right.

The connection is made instantly; the utilities including internet service won't be cut off until tomorrow. In a matter of seconds Harry is scrolling through the day's reports, checking on the agents currently in the field, looking to see if any new matters have arisen that require his attention.

A chat box pops up in the corner of the screen. _What are you doing?_

He could ignore it, but Merlin is nothing if not persistent. And Merlin has things to atone for, or so he thinks. Merlin was too wary in the beginning, too disinclined to extend trust. Once it became clear that these things were ridiculous, Merlin was quick to apologise, to welcome him back with open arms. But there is a strain on their friendship now, a complicated emotional framework that most days Harry is too tired to navigate. He simply soldiers on the way he always has, and tells himself one day he will be able to look at Merlin and see his old friend, and not the man who mistrusted him at a time when he needed it more than anything.

So Merlin is there now, quick to show support, overcompensating for his previous lack of it. _Shouldn't you be moving?_

 _I am_ , Harry types. _The removal men will be here in a little bit._ At least they had better be. Yesterday they had confirmed their arrival time, but he isn't holding his breath. _How are things?_

 _Fine_ , Merlin writes back. _No new developments on Galahad's mission. Bors is working through the latest batch of surveillance data, and Lancelot is on schedule to meet Whiskey later today in Singapore._

Harry scowls a little at that. He isn't as keen as Champ is for their two agencies to continue to work together. But that's not something he's ever told anyone. After all, he knows perfectly well that when it comes to Statesman, he is never going to be objective.

 _Ping me if anything new comes up_ , he writes.

 _I will_ , Merlin promises. The old Merlin would have cheerfully disregarded that promise in the hope of letting him have this day uninterrupted. This new Merlin will abide by that promise.

Harry closes the laptop and sighs. He does not enjoy being in charge, bearing the title of Arthur. He misses the days when he would be handed a mission file and expected to learn for himself everything he needed to know. He misses the thrill of being in the field, the boredom of long periods of surveillance, the way it would all end in a burst of frenzied activity often lasting no longer than five minutes. Then the trip home, the debrief with Arthur, the mandatory visit to Medical, and a new _Sun_ headline to hang on his wall.

He could of course go out in the field again. As Arthur, that is his prerogative. But the one time he mentioned it -- with some longing, it must be shamefully admitted -- Eggsy had stared at him with such horror that he had not brought it up again. Even Merlin has expressed his misgivings, reminding him gently that the field is no place for someone with his rather…unique…skillset.

And as loath as he is to admit it, Harry knows they are right. In the heat of the moment, when seconds count and a life hangs in the balance, he would do whatever it takes to ensure survival. Fuck the rules, the logic that demands he forget what he can do now. If telekinesis would keep him alive, he would use it without hesitation.

Only to die because of it.

It's an irony he hates too much to truly appreciate.

He hears Eggsy coming up the stairs. There's enough time -- barely -- to move away from the desk, act like he wasn't working, but Harry doesn't even consider pretending. One of the things he and Eggsy discussed at the start of all this, back when the tailor shop was still just mounds of rubble, was that this thing between them would only work if they were honest with each other. No more secret guilts, no more secret ambitions.

So he stays right where he is, and looks up as Eggsy appears. "Checking in?" Eggsy asks. He lounges against the doorframe.

Harry nods. "I thought there was enough time before the movers arrived."

Eggsy doesn't say anything right away. He hasn't been sent out on a mission in nearly three weeks, but he has remained busy. There are aliases to establish, old informants to check on, leads to research in case one of them turns out to be something worth actually pursuing. He's spent hours in the gym and lifting heavy boxes as they began packing up their rental house. He's visited his mother and little sister, taken JB for walks, done most of the weekly shopping.

If he's bored or restless, he hasn't shown it. He seems genuinely content with things right now. Not just the slow rebuilding of Kingsman, but the life he and Harry have made with each other.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

"Yes," Harry says.

Eggsy nods. He's about to say something when the doorbell rings.

They exchange a look, brief but wary. Harry knows perfectly well that it's just the removal men, but he is a spy. Mistrust is second nature to him. That moment of speculation, of almost paranoid wonder, a dozen possibilities whipping through his mind, plotting reactions for them all, striving to stay three steps ahead.

Eggsy hasn't been doing this long enough for such behaviour to be instinctual yet, but he's getting there. And far quicker than Harry would have thought. He supposes the years living under Dean Baker's thumb are responsible for that, giving Eggsy a perpetual sense of caution about things unexpected, because any one of them could turn out to spell doom for him.

But the moment is over quick enough, each of them relaxing, realising who it must be. And though part of him remains on alert, Harry finds that he is actually looking forward to this day. As chaotic and stressful as it will be, the end result will be more than worth it.

In a few hours, he and Eggsy will be settled in their new home.

"They're here," Eggsy says. A bright grin lights up his face.

"So it would seem," Harry says.

Eggsy smiles at him for a moment, then turns and hurries out of the room. He thumps down the stairs and Harry hears him open the front door.

He goes downstairs more slowly, taking in the sight of the two burly men who come in at Eggsy's request. Cold air from outside follows them in; they wear hats and gloves and heavy coats bearing the name of the company that sent them.

Eggsy looks up at him. "Are we ready?"

Still on the stairs, Harry nods. "We're ready."

****

By nightfall the worst is over. The furniture is more or less in place and some of it is even put together. Boxes are arranged in the rooms they belong to, and many of them have even been unpacked. The kitchen is almost completely in order, and their clothes hang in the wonderfully spacious closet.

Neither one of them has the energy for cooking, not to mention the fact that in the excitement of moving, they forgot to get any groceries for the new fridge. After a hasty Google search and some bickering, they settle on a place to get takeaway, and head out into the night.

It's cold out, but after the effort of moving boxes around and putting the bed together, Harry welcomes the chill on his face. He buttons his coat and looks up at the sky. There are no stars to be seen, of course, for all the city lights, but he looks anyway. He was in that padded room too long, wondering if he would ever see the natural sky again.

Christmas lights shine in many of the houses and shops they pass. Their colours wash over Eggsy, painting him in shades of blue, red, and green. The holiday is still two weeks away. They haven't decorated at all. Harry had said that it was pointless to decorate the old house when they were leaving, and Eggsy had agreed. Amid all the other concerns with moving, they haven't discussed decorating the new house, though. That's something they'll have to correct, Harry thinks as they pass a shop with a hundred twinkling lights in the window.

Oblivious to Harry's thoughts, or even to his own beauty, Eggsy strides confidently forward, hungry and eager for food. Harry keeps the pace easily enough, but he would have preferred if they had called somewhere for delivery. Already he's aching in various places; the day's exertions winded him more than he would like to admit.

It's been a sore point with him since his release. He kept himself as active as possible in that cell, walking endless circuits of the room, doing planks and sit-ups, squats and lunges. But the ugly truth is he lost a lot of muscle tone during his captivity, and at his age it's questionable whether he'll ever get it back. With the Kingsman facilities destroyed, Eggsy decided to join a local gym in an effort at staying in shape, but Harry refused to even consider it. Pride and embarrassment have kept him at home, not wanting anyone to witness an old man try to subdue his body.

Tomorrow he'll hurt worse than today. He will feel old and useless. It will take him a while to get out of bed, coddling his back, standing for ages under the steam of a hot shower. He'll glare at the tile and clench his jaw and curse Richmond Valentine and Champ and his Statesmen until he feels the power backing up in his head, searching for a way out, for something he can destroy in his anger. Until, alarmed at how close he is to doing the one thing he's sworn not to do, he'll slump back, release his anger, turn away from the frightening talent lurking in his brain. He'll step out of the shower and into the bedroom, and he'll smile at Eggsy as though nothing happened. And he'll go on about his day, a man capable of moving things with his mind while pretending that he isn't.

He knows all this because it's happened before. Much more often than he would like.

But that will be tomorrow. Tonight the air is cold and Eggsy walks next to him, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Tonight they will eat their first meal in their new house. Tonight they will grasp at each other, naked and slick with sweat, on the bed Harry put together. Tonight they will fall asleep beside each other, secure in the knowledge that they are right where they belong.

Tonight they will truly make the new house their home.

****

The alarm goes off far too early the next morning for Harry's liking. But there's nothing for it. He's got to get up.

Beside him Eggsy stirs, his face buried in the pillow. He's still naked, burrowed beneath the covers, a welcome source of heat on Harry's right. "No fair," he murmurs. "I jus' fell asleep."

It certainly feels that way. Harry yawns and carefully stretches, mindful of his aching back. He blinks, the view already in clear focus through his left eye, still sleep-blurred through his right. He frowns and blinks rapidly -- although not so fast as to accidentally activate the infrared capability in the prosthetic.

Eggsy picks his head up and looks around. He takes in the boxes stacked in the corner, his own pyjamas strewn across the floor where he threw them last night. Then he looks over at Harry and he grins. "Morning."

Harry smiles back. "Good morning."

****

An hour later they're walking to Savile Row. The shop has only been open for a couple weeks, but the timing was just right. Their old clients have returned in gratitude, putting in orders for new suits meant to be worn at this year's holiday parties. The tailors have been working long hours in order to keep up; all the agents have pitched in, too. Even Harry has worked a few shifts, finding a forgotten comfort in the quiet rhythm of needle and thread.

In the beginning the manor and the shop were nothing but piles of rubble, but there was still a need for a central headquarters, a place where the remaining Kingsmen could meet and discuss their future. More through a general laziness than any real plan, the safe house where Harry, Eggsy, and Merlin took refuge after the Poppy incident had become their default HQ. It was nowhere near large enough, of course, but they had made do.

With the re-opening of the shop, it has become the new HQ. Harry always disliked the idea of holding court in the dining room, the way Chester King once did, but he does have to admit it makes things much simpler to have one room used for multiple purposes. He did insist on making a few changes, however, modernising the décor wherever possible, and installing a new Round Table that is actually round. The shape of the table means there is less room to move about the dining room, but so far there haven't been any complaints.

Kingsman tailors might be open for business again, but the agency itself is still running a very skeleton crew. They don't have enough of the computers, the vehicles, the suits, the guns and ammunition, any of the myriad things required to keep them fully operational. The staff in Berlin have been working around the clock to help them reacquire of most of the materials they need, but it's been a frustratingly slow process. Harry has dug deep into their bank accounts to finance the rebuilding of the shop and called in a lot of favours, while using every chance to create new ones owed. After all, an agency as small and secret as theirs can only exist on the charity of others. Chester King had often said that with a sneer, but Harry sees no shame in it. He's always been quick and ruthless to exploit any advantage to come his way. Those other people don't know who they're _actually_ helping, but they _do_ help. That's all that matters.

By itself the shop isn't enough, though, something they've all known from the start. Kingsman need a new HQ, a place large enough for all their needs. Thankfully, they didn't have to go far to find it.

Their eventual new home is located closer to London than the old manor, and fortunately isn't far from the underground railway that serviced both the mansion and the shop. (The logistics of extending the tunnel and railway is one of the many headaches Harry is still trying to sort out.) He takes a certain satisfaction from the knowledge that it once belonged to Chester King, from appropriating a beautiful estate with extensive grounds and a natural forest surrounding it on three sides. It will do just fine for their new HQ -- someday.

Hopefully that day won' be too far off. Already the manor has a stocked garage, several offices, a shooting range, and their medical unit. Computers and equipment arrive almost daily, and Merlin has done an admirable job of erasing the manor from nearly all data records and satellite searches; even Google Earth has no idea the house exists.

But for now, though, the shop is home. Harry always feels lighter when he steps inside, when he breathes in the familiar scents of wool and linen, chalk dust and old wood. The new shop is nearly identical to the old -- their customers wouldn't have wanted it any other way -- but behind the scenes there are some new upgrades. Things only a Kingsman agent would need or appreciate.

Alistair is behind the counter this morning, looking perfectly manicured and put together. They all take turns rotating this duty, because as yet there is no replacement for Andrew, who died in the explosion that took out the shop. He was working late that fateful night, although fortunately he was the only one present. Replacing him is another one of those things on yet another of Harry's endless lists, a task he has no heart for.

"The new batch of suits is ready," Alistair says without preamble. He was on the bullet train that night, en route to HQ; he spent two days trapped in the tunnel, unable to get out at either end, and suffered badly from dehydration before he was able to dig his way out. "A shipment from Berlin arrived this morning, and Merlin is waiting upstairs for you."

"Thank you," Harry replies. All of this is good news, with the possible exception of Merlin's early arrival.

"I'll go through the Berlin stuff, yeah?" Eggsy offers. He rebuilt the armoury behind fitting room three almost single-handedly, restocking it with the old familiar equipment along with some new innovations. Harry is happy to let him take over this duty, knowing Eggsy will put everything away where it belongs, with attention paid to every detail.

Alone, he heads up the stairs. There is still a lingering scent of new carpet and fresh paint up here, a reminder of all that was lost. 

And all they've rebuilt and overcome.

Merlin is in the dining room, standing before the polished table, staring down at his clipboard. Berlin has upgraded his old style considerably, giving him much greater capability with it than before. Given that their computer network is barely half what it used to be, that's no small feat.

"Good morning," Harry says as he enters.

"Good morning, Arthur," Merlin replies, correct as ever.

Harry doesn't say a word as he takes his seat. He's long since become accustomed to hiding his reaction to hearing himself called that name, but that doesn't mean he likes it. Or that he will ever like it.

Merlin sits as well. There is a tea service set out on the table, and there is silence as they both help themselves, broken only by the gentle clink of a stirring spoon touching delicate china. They cautiously sip the hot liquid, set their cups down, and at last the meeting begins.

"We've had some new information on Lady Forrester-Grey," Merlin says.

There is only one active mission ongoing right now, the one that's taken Lancelot to Singapore to meet up with Whiskey. But there are always multiple open investigations: people Kingsman is keeping watch on, governments they are listening to, informants coming forward with information (most of it pure rubbish) in the hope of being paid, situations that require monitoring. It's harder to do these days without the resources and computing power they had before, but somehow Merlin makes it all work.

"Tell me," Harry says.

Lady Margaret Forrester-Grey, Maggie to her friends, has been on Kingsman's radar for over a year. Fiercely intelligent, incredibly wealthy, and completely batshit crazy, she was a fervent supporter of Richmond Valentine in the months before V-Day. She threw several glittering parties at her house, charging exorbitant sums of money in exchange for an invitation, and donated the money to Valentine's climate change charity. She had not been present at his bunker in Russia on V-Day, choosing to stay sequestered in her own home, in a panic room apparently built for the purpose of surviving the global apocalypse.

Reading her file makes Harry uncomfortable, reminds him unhappily of an old mission from years ago and another woman eager to see the world burn. He would have given the mission to Percival, to Bors, to anyone at all, but Eggsy had claimed it for his own. "Valentine was my fuck up. It's only fair I clean up the mess."

No amount of arguing could convince Eggsy otherwise. And since he is no stranger to guilt himself, Harry at last stopped trying to change Eggsy's mind. He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Eggsy is not to blame for V-Day, but until Eggsy is able to forgive himself, there is little he can say.

So this new information will be passed to Eggsy, as is his right as the agent in charge. But first, Harry will hear it.

"It would seem the lady in question has been corresponding with Jacques Duvalier, one of the world's foremost biochemical weapons experts," Merlin says. There is nothing in his tone to indicate how he feels about this. "She is hosting a Christmas party at her house next weekend. Duvalier himself hasn't been seen in nearly two weeks, which coincidentally is when he arrived in England, supposedly on holiday, according to his customs forms. Additionally, his research lab appears to have been hastily vacated."

Harry nods. Already he is considering possible options, ways to get further information, how they might get closer to Lady Margaret Forrester-Grey. It's one of the things he's quite good at, this quick analysis, one of the reasons no one will ever let him step down as Arthur no matter how much he might despise it.

"This party," he says. "What is she doing to prepare for it?"

Merlin nods. "I thought you might ask that." He looks down at his clipboard and starts rattling off the names of caterers, contractors, and a private security team who have all been contacted by Lady Forrester-Grey. It's a long list, which is not surprising, but that's actually a good thing.

"Let's get Galahad in there," Harry says. "The painters for sure, possibly the gardeners." Two undercover roles, augmented by a disguise on one of the days, a chance for Eggsy to role play, even experiment with an accent. It's the kind of thing Eggsy excels at, something he loves to do. "We'll want cameras and bugs placed throughout the estate. And get him an invitation to that party. If she's back in time, Lancelot can be his guest."

Merlin nods, tapping away at his clipboard.

"We might want to add Lancelot to the invitation if she gets back in time," Harry says.

Merlin looks up at this, one eyebrow raised. "You think we'll need that much coverage?" he asks. Once again his voice gives nothing away.

"We'll know more after Galahad goes in," Harry replies, "but right now my thought is yes. She supported Valentine and his plans for a culling. And she's been meeting with someone who's already made and sold biochemical weapons on the black market. She could be planning anything."

"Oh yes," Merlin says. "That reminds me. Apparently she's told everyone invited to the party that she has a gift for them all. To be handed out at midnight."

Harry glares at his old friend. "And you didn't think that was important enough to mention earlier?"

"I actually forgot about it until just now," Merlin says without shame.

"Get that invitation," Harry says. Both Eggsy and Roxy have crafted a few aliases, people who would be the sort to receive an invitation from Lady Forrester-Grey.

Merlin swipes at his clipboard. "Should I tell Galahad?"

"I'll tell him," Harry says.

"All right," Merlin says. "Next, an update on Lancelot and Whiskey."

Harry takes another sip of his tea. It's going to be a long day.

****

Together he and Eggsy work out the details, and by the day's end, they have a plan in place.

Eggsy is keen to get started, his eyes bright with anticipation. He's already working out the finer details of his cover identities, coming up with rich backstories that will never be needed, but that enrich his understanding of who he is supposed to be. He's naturally gifted at accents and mimicry, and Harry has no qualms at all about Eggsy pulling off the deceptions required.

For the first day, he will join the crew that will be painting the ballroom in Lady Forrester-Grey's manor. Merlin provides a supply of bugs, trackers and cameras for Eggsy to plant around the house, specifically in rooms where he thinks they will be the most useful.

For the second day, he will join the gardeners who have been hired to do some landscaping and hang thousands of strands of Christmas lights. He has a blond wig for this role, and a fake goatee; he tries it on and spends a while staring at his reflection in the mirror, absently stroking the facial hair. "What do you think? Should I grow one?"

"If you like," Harry says. He's not too fond of facial hair himself, but if Eggsy wants to give it a try, he's willing to go along.

Eggsy studies his image a while longer. They're in their own bathroom, dinner already eaten (takeaway again), the washing up still to be done. The dirty dishes are forgotten though, as Eggsy stands there, trying out a variety of expressions, from large grins to exaggerated pouts, seeing how the goatee moves with his face. Then he shrugs. "Nah. Maybe not."

Secretly relieved, Harry just says, "Okay."

"She's got her own gardeners, you know," Eggsy says. He pulls the wig off and sets it on the counter next to their toothbrushes. His hair stands up in places now, the careful styling thoroughly ruined. It makes him look younger, and at the same time like someone who is just waiting to be debauched.

Harry is sorely tempted to do just that, too.

"I read the file," he replies.

Eggsy meets his eyes in the mirror, then starts to delicately pick off the fake goatee. "This must be a helluva party if she's got to hire all them extra people."

"It seems that way," Harry says. From what they can tell, Lady Forrester-Grey certainly seems to be sparing no expense. It makes Harry suspicious as hell. For someone who wanted to see the world end just a year ago, such largesse makes no sense.

Then again, money won't mean much in a world where two-thirds of the people are dead from some viral plague. Perhaps she spends it now because she realises how worthless it will be in a couple months -- if she gets her way.

Free of his disguise, Eggsy washes his face. Harry steps aside, giving him room. "I'm going to start on the dishes," he says.

Eggsy nods, unable to respond for the soap covering his face.

Smiling a little to himself, Harry goes back downstairs. The muscles in his calves protest each step, making him grimace a little; as he feared, he's rather sore today from the exertions of yesterday's move. It's not as bad as it could be, though, for which he is duly grateful.

He's got most of the dishes put away by the time Eggsy joins him in the kitchen. There is little left to do by then, so Eggsy just loiters in the archway leading from the kitchen to the dining room. Their house doesn't have the same floor plan as the one in Stanhope Mews, of course, but it's similar enough that they both felt at ease from the moment the estate agent showed them around.

He's been thinking about their conversation while doing the dishes. He knows he should just let it go, but for some reason he can't. He knows too well the allure of an undercover identity, how it can lull one into thinking no one is paying attention, that you are truly unseen, able to do what you like without repercussions. But more than that, he just doesn't like this situation. At all. He has no proof as of yet, but he feels certain that Lady Margaret Forrester-Grey is serious trouble.

"I don't want you taking any unnecessary risks on this mission," he says.

"I won't," Eggsy says, far too casually for Harry's liking.

"Eggsy." The words come out before he can stop them. "I'm serious."

Eggsy stands up straight, a line between his brows indicating his displeasure. "Yeah. So am I."

It wouldn't take much to turn this into a proper row, but Harry doesn't want to fight. He only wants to make sure Eggsy is safe. He wants to get a few more boxes unpacked, make this feel more like their home. He wants to unwind a bit with his current book, read another chapter or maybe two, if they're short. He wants to check in on his staff and make sure everything is all right, that no one is in any danger. He wants to go to bed with Eggsy and lie next to him in the dark, secure in the knowledge that he's done everything he can, that he can finally let his guard down and relax.

"She is not to be underestimated," Harry says. He feels uneasy just thinking about Eggsy in that house with her. "Anyone who was that devoted to Valentine and his ideas is capable of anything."

"Yeah, I know," Eggsy says. He sounds less sullen now. "I'm guessing though that she won't have anything to do with the hired help, you know? I doubt I'll even see her."

This is most likely true. Even if she wasn't already preoccupied with whatever nefarious scheme she is hatching, Lady Forrester-Grey doesn't seem the type to bother herself with hired work crews. Someone else will provide the instructions, watch over the crews, make sure they're all where they're supposed to be.

Which only worries Harry further. He has no doubt about Eggsy's ability to slip away unnoticed and sneak through the house and gardens as needed. What worries him is the thought that Eggsy will somehow manage to encounter Lady Forrester-Grey completely by accident, precisely because she _won't_ be overseeing the hired contractors, and her whereabouts will be unknown.

He's not at all satisfied with the conversation, but he's been with Eggsy long enough to know when to gracefully surrender. He's planted the seeds, now all he can do is wait and hope that Eggsy's own prodigious intellect will provide the rest.

He gestures to the dishtowel draped across the oven door; Eggsy is standing closest to it. "Could you please hand me that?"

Eggsy has to step into the kitchen to reach the towel. He holds it out, and for the thousandth time since his release from Statesman, Harry privately curses the fact that he's somehow gained a highly useful mental ability that he can't actually _use_. 

"Need any help?" Eggsy offers.

"I'm almost done," Harry says. He wipes down the countertop. "But if you wanted to get started on some of the unpacking, I'll join you in a bit."

"Yeah, okay," Eggsy says. He sounds about as thrilled to unpack their boxes as he would if Harry suggested he go to the dentist.

He expects Eggsy to leave then, but Eggsy hesitates, lingering in the kitchen. Harry is about to ask if there's something he needs, but before he can even draw breath to speak, Eggsy says, "I really _will_ be careful. You know that, right?"

"Of course I do," Harry says without hesitating. Because it's true. But so is this next bit. "But that doesn't stop me from worrying about you."

"I can handle myself," Eggsy says. He's not arguing. He's just stating a fact.

"I know you can," Harry says. He sets the dishtowel down and turns to face Eggsy. "If I didn't know that, I wouldn't send you out on such a dangerous mission."

He thinks of all those missions Eggsy was assigned to during the long months they spent apart. All those times Eggsy risked life and limb to keep the world safe, doing it without hope or expectation of any kind of thanks or gratitude. All those times Eggsy was hurt, shot at, hunted, chased. 

All those times he should have been there.

"But knowing you can take care of yourself doesn't mean I don't worry," he says.

Eggsy appears to want to argue this point. But of course he can't. They both remember his reaction to the suggestion that Harry might return to the field. He can hardly blame Harry for having the same sense of unease and worry that he shares.

"Yeah, I know," Eggsy sighs. "But I don't want you to worry about me. You got enough on your plate."

This is quite true, but it misses the point so far that Harry can't help but smile. "I love you," he says simply. He doesn't say it out loud very often, finding even such simple emotional declarations to be annoyingly difficult even at the best of times. And every time he does say it, he wishes he did it more often. The way Eggsy's face softens, every single time, only makes him love Eggsy all the more.

"Of course I'm going to worry," he says. "And I suspect you feel the same way."

"Well, yeah," Eggsy says as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. Then he realises what he's said, and he makes a face. "Okay, okay. I get it."

Harry walks toward him, meeting him in the archway. Behind him the dining room table gleams under the chandelier; two boxes are stacked in the corner, still waiting to be unpacked. Eggsy stands his ground, chin up. He's still in his dress shirt and trousers, though his tie was tossed on the couch almost from the moment they arrived back home.

At times like this, Harry is more conscious than ever of the height difference between them, and the way Eggsy has to look up to meet his gaze, tilting his head back ever so slightly. It adds an extra dimension to the way Harry leans down to kiss Eggsy, the way Eggsy rises up just a little on the balls of his feet to meet him, the way their balance shifts as they support each other with no touch other than the press of their lips.

"Forget unpacking," Harry says. He sets a hand on Eggsy's back, so light.

It's enough, though, to feel the little quiver that runs through Eggsy's entire body.

"Yeah," Eggsy says. He leans up, kissing Harry, opening his mouth. He tastes like the lemon tart they had for pudding.

"We should go upstairs," Harry says, Eggsy's breath warm on his cheek.

"We could," Eggsy says. "But we haven't christened the kitchen yet, have we?"

Harry pulls back a little, enough to see the wicked glint in Eggsy's eyes. "Well," he says, "it's a good thing the washing up is finished, isn't it?"

Eggsy laughs and pulls him through the archway and into the kitchen.

****

The next few days are busy. Harry deals with yet another request to start looking for a contractor to expand the underground railway tunnel out to Chester King's old manor house. A shipment of guns from Berlin goes missing, prompting a massive search; it turns up a day later with everything accounted for and a few new grey hairs for Harry.

Lancelot returns from Singapore and they meet for the standard debrief. Harry likes Roxy a lot, has enormous respect for her skills, and always appreciates their conversations. She has a wonderfully dry sense of humour and a way of rendering even the most complex mission into what is important and what isn't. She also has all the latest gossip and information from Statesman, directly from Whiskey himself.

Harry shakes his head afterward; he's fairly certain he's not meant to know most of what he just heard. Whiskey is a good spy, but once he's decided to trust someone, he loses all sense of discretion. If Champ knew half the things he had told Roxy, he would probably never again be allowed to partner up with Kingsman.

Which is why Harry has no intention of telling Champ.

He does however ask Merlin to join him. "I'd like you to add Lancelot's name to Eggsy's invitation to Lady Forrester-Grey's Christmas party." He doesn't even wait for Merlin to acknowledge this before adding, "And don't forget my invitation as well."

Merlin's eyes widen a little. "You're going to the party?"

"Yes, I am," Harry says.

He made the decision early this morning, even before his meeting with Roxy. The more he sees about this mission, the less he likes it. He wants to be there. He has to be there.

There is no reason why he can't go. He still has all his old cover identities, even though a few of them required a miraculous resuscitation after his discovery in Kentucky. And though Arthur traditionally does not personally take on any missions, there is no rule saying he can't.

But mostly Harry just believes that he has to be there.

It's late afternoon and already the skies are nearly dark; the dining room is dim and unwelcoming, in spite of all the changes Harry made to it. He finds the room oppressive sometimes, as on days like today, when it reminds him too much of the padded walls where he used to draw butterflies as a desperate way of holding onto his sanity. There is nothing in here to remind him of that old room, and there are no similarities -- but he feels trapped all the same.

Merlin looks disapproving. "You don't think Galahad and Lancelot can handle it?"

"Of course they can," Harry snaps. "But I am not Chester King, and I will not sit up here in my ivory tower when we are short-staffed and in need of every agent we have." He thinks fleetingly of a long-ago winter morning in the Black Prince and the way Eggsy had looked at him with such hostility, then blinks away the memory. "I am still perfectly capable of going out in the field, and this is my decision."

He stands down a little as he adds, "Everything I see about this operation leaves me with no doubt that this woman is very dangerous. We need more than one agent on this."

Merlin surrenders without further argument, either because he believes this too (which Harry is inclined to think is true) or because he's still in appeasement mode after his initial behaviour in Kentucky and immediately afterward, when he was reluctant to trust his old friend too much.

"I'll get it taken care of," Merlin says.

"Thank you," Harry replies, and that's the matter done.

****

Eggsy, however, is not so quick to give in. "You can't go out there!"

"And why not?" he says. They're at home, having dinner at the polished wooden table that bears no resemblance to the one he had in Stanhope Mews.

"Because you're Arthur," Eggsy says.

Harry had known that would be his first argument. "There is nothing to prevent Arthur from going out in the field," he says. "Only age and laziness kept Chester King away."

Eggsy glares at this, uncomfortable with any mention of Chester. "So what then, you don't think me and Rox can handle it?"

"Of course you can," Harry says. "But you'll do it better with a third set of eyes. This is a very dangerous situation. It would be remiss of me to sit this one out merely because I think I am too important."

Something flashes across Eggsy's face, too swift to be deciphered. "But Harry…"

"You needn't worry," he says. "I won't reach for a champagne glass with my mind, if that's your concern."

"I wasn't worried about that," Eggsy retorts. "Though _now_ I am." He scowls.

"Jacques Duvalier, our biochemical weapons expert, hasn't been seen since his arrival in England two weeks ago," Harry says. "His research in his lab in Paris has disappeared. His last known correspondent is Lady Margaret Forrester-Grey, who just so happens to have been one of Richmond Valentine's greatest supporters." Harry gazes at Eggsy over their dinner, across the dishes they picked out together after a long irritating day of shopping. "Whatever she is planning, she must be stopped. We stand a much better chance of that if three of us are present."

Eggsy takes a breath like he's about to speak, but instead of saying anything, he just sighs, his shoulders sagging a little. "Yeah," he finally says. "I know."

"If it's any consolation," Harry offers, "I already had this conversation with Merlin, and I'm sure he's just as worried as you are."

"Doubt it," Eggsy mutters. But he does muster up a bit of a smile.

"We'll be fine," Harry says. He trusts that to be true, even if he suspects it will take some work to make it happen.

He takes a sip of his water. "And I might point out that I too can handle myself out there, as you have said."

Eggsy's scowl returns, deeper this time. "You don't get to use that," he says.

"Don't I?" Harry says. He keeps his tone mild, but underneath it he feels the first stirrings of anger.

He knows what Eggsy is thinking. It's the same thing Merlin thought earlier today. What any one of them will be thinking now once the word gets out that he intends to go into the field.

They're thinking of what happened last time. Of Kentucky and South Glade Mission Church. The ticking time bomb in his head, this strange ability to affect things with his thoughts alone. The prosthetic eye that only looks different from the real one in just the right light at just the right angle.

And he knows Eggsy's concern is rooted in love. He knows because it's the same reason he worries when Eggsy is out there, connected to Harry then by invisible lines of light and sound and a single pair of glasses. It's a worry he's not yet been able to reconcile with his trust in Eggsy and his skills.

He wonders if he ever will.

Eggsy frowns down at his plate, and Harry waits. If Eggsy demands honesty of him, he will of course give it, though he will be humiliated in the process.

He will tell Eggsy how much he detests being Arthur. That he is bored to death in this job. He doesn't feel like he is of use anymore. He doesn't feel like a _Kingsman_ anymore. That some days he feels more imprisoned by that dining room at Savile Row than he ever did when he was Statesman's captive. That he would give anything to be back out there, Galahad once again, confident in himself and his abilities, assured that he was doing the right thing, that he was saving the world.

It's hard to save the world from behind a desk.

Eggsy doesn't ask, though. Maybe he can guess at some of this. Or maybe he recognises that if they are to trust each other, then they have to _trust_ each other. It's not about whether they can do the job. It's whether they can do it _together_.

"Yeah, all right," Eggsy says. As though granting permission. Which in a way he is. And they both know it.

He kind of smiles then, though it's clearly not easy. "And hey, I guess we finally get to do a mission together. Like I always wanted."

"As did I," Harry says. And that too is the truth.

****

"I don't get it," Eggsy says two days later. He's in uniform already, less than hour away from joining the crew of painters as they descend on Lady Forrester-Grey's house. "If she's planning something like the end of the world, why spend all this money on stuff that doesn't matter?"

"Because she's done it every year she throws a party," Merlin answers. "Any change in her usual behaviour would seem suspicious."

"And then people wouldn't show up," Harry says.

"And we can't have that," Eggsy says with a roll of his eyes.

"Do you have everything you need?" Merlin asks. It's so early the shop won't even be open for another hour. He carries his clipboard as always, and he hasn't taken his coat off; he's only here long enough to make sure Eggsy is properly kitted up before he's away to Chester King's old manor to supervise the installation of a new rack of servers.

"Think so," Eggsy says. He's dressed in a painter's overalls, a cap over his hair. He looks ready to get to work.

Hidden in the voluminous pockets of the overalls are half a dozen microdot cameras and bugs. Eggsy will leave them at various places around the house, using his best judgement for the actual locations. As Merlin is otherwise occupied this morning, it will be up to Harry to monitor the feed from his glasses. With any luck, Eggsy will see Duvalier himself and confirm the speculation that the biochemist has been staying with Lady Forrester-Grey these past two weeks.

"Then you should be going," Merlin says. "You don't want to be late and be sent home."

Eggsy pulls a face. "Yeah."

Merlin heads for the door. "Good luck," he says as a farewell.

The door closes behind him, and then it's just the two of them. Harry gazes at Eggsy, and he smiles. "Be careful." It's what he always says just before Eggsy leaves him for a mission.

"You know I will," Eggsy says. It's what he always replies.

People are walking by on the street. Anyone could look in and see them. But Harry doesn't give a damn. He closes the distance between them and right there in front of the display of pocket squares, he leans in to kiss Eggsy.

Eggsy rises to meet him, one hand closing about his arm. The brim of his cap thunks Harry in the forehead, then they find the right angle and it's perfect. Warm breath and soft lips and the forever amazement that this beautiful young man chose him.

With obvious reluctance, Eggsy pulls away. 

Harry lets him, but he doesn't want to.

He wants to take Eggsy home, to continue kissing him as they bump their way up the stairs, jostling each other clumsily into the wall, knocking against the banister hard enough to set it to wobbling. He wants to feel Eggsy's hands on his bare skin, tracing the scars old and new. He wants to lick his way down the ridge of Eggsy's spine and then lower still, to the cleft of his arse, and lower and deeper still, tasting every inch of him. He wants to hold Eggsy as he shudders with release, and kiss the top of his head, sweaty hair sticking to his lips when he rolls his head on the pillow.

He wants to make lunch, a thick soup perhaps, something warm and filling for the cold air outside their window. He wants to sit on the couch with Eggsy while he reads his book, while Eggsy texts his mates and sends silly pictures to Daisy. He wants to bicker good-naturedly over whose turn it is to brave the cold and take JB outside.

He wants it all so badly he _aches_ for the wanting.

And what unnerves him, what nearly frightens him, isn't the strength of that wanting. It's the fact that what he wants is nothing outrageous or spectacular. It's simply _life_. A life lived with someone he loves. All those mundane things he never knew could be so treasured, before he fell in love with Eggsy Unwin.

For right now, though, such fantasies have to remain that: a dream to be desired. For now, there is only duty.

"I'll see you tonight," Eggsy says.

For the debrief, of course. To go over the day's events, the successes and failures, the information they can hopefully add to the mission file.

But also for more kisses, for moving around each other in the kitchen as they make dinner, for going up the stairs together, for naked skin and gasping breath in the dark.

"Yes," Harry says. He smiles. "I'll see you tonight."

****

While Eggsy is pretending to be a painter, Lancelot rents a car and drives out to Lady Forrester-Grey's manor. Dressed in a thick jumper that's too big for her, capped with a wig of tight curls, she pulls up to the guard shack at the main gate and requests an audience with the lady herself. She's an estate agent, she explains, bearing an offer from a very rich American couple who wish to buy the house.

She's not allowed in, of course. But she drags out the conversation, maintaining eye contact with the guard while turning her head just enough to give Kingsman an excellent view through her glasses of the interior of the guard shack and the gate itself. When she finally gives in and leaves, Harry says, "Well done, Lancelot."

Roxy says, "He had terrible breath."

"If we have to take him out," Harry says, "you can be the one to do it."

"Good," Roxy says, and though Harry can't see her tight smile, he can hear it in her voice.

****

There's paint in Eggsy's hair when he gets back that night, and he is not in a good mood.

"Fucking butler or whatever kept his eye on us the whole time. I only got to put cameras at the front and back doors." He makes a face, then brightens. "But I did get to put one above the stage."

It's late and it's dark, and it's growing quite cold. They probably should have stayed at the shop for the debrief, but Harry was hungry and he was certain Eggsy was, too, so they had gone straight home. Now the dishwasher is humming in the kitchen, only a faint scent on the air leftover from dinner. 

They sit in the living room with the telly on but the volume muted, and the drapes drawn against the night. Harry is supposed to be taking notes, but so far he's barely added anything to the mission file currently pulled up on his laptop. "Stage?"

"Yeah," Eggsy says. He showered just before dinner, and the paint in his hair has been washed out. He sits on the couch, cradling a mug of hot tea, his feet in cosy Kingsman slippers. "She's having one built in the ballroom. I guess there's gonna be a band the night of the party?" He shrugs. "Anyway I heard the butler saying she's gonna make a speech or something. I figured she might stand there and rehearse it once they get the stage set up, so I put one on the wall. Hopefully it's the right height to catch her."

"That was good thinking," Harry says. He's vaguely worried by the sound of this. So Lady Forrester-Grey is giving a speech. Coupled with Merlin's information that she has promised a gift to everyone, it becomes even more ominous. Clearly she is planning something -- and it is almost certainly not going to be pleasant.

Eggsy still seems disgruntled, but now he looks up. "Yeah, well, we'll see if it works."

"Whether it does or not, you made a good choice," Harry says. "Especially given your limited range."

"I guess," Eggsy says. He sips at his tea. "I gotta do better tomorrow."

Harry frowns. He isn't pleased with their lack of progress today, but that's hardly Eggsy's fault. And he really doesn't like Eggsy blaming himself for things beyond his control. "You'll do the best you can. The same as you did today."

Eggsy shrugs, clearly not satisfied with this response. "Yeah, I guess."

Harry says nothing to this, although he would like to. He knows that anything he says at this point would be counterproductive. Eggsy has to learn to go easy on himself, to not bear the weight of so many perceived failures on his shoulders. But this is not something Harry can ever say out loud, especially not when he is just as guilty of the same mistake.

Instead he steers the conversation in another direction. "I had thought we could go shopping tomorrow night."

Eggsy blinks in surprise. "For what?"

"Has it escaped your notice that we are less than two weeks away from a rather important holiday?" Harry says. He affects a tone of mild amazement. "I thought Kingsman agents were supposed to be observant."

"Ha ha," Eggsy says. But he's not really annoyed. In fact he looks almost excited as he sits up a little. "So what, you mean like a tree and stuff?"

"And stuff," Harry says. He can't help smiling a little.

Eggsy grins in response, his eyes lighting up. When he smiles like that Harry always thinks of that moment when he first walked into fitting room three and saw the armoury and all its secrets. "That would be fucking awesome."

"Then it's a date," Harry says. He has no debriefs tomorrow, no check-ins with anyone, no appointments, no meetings. Eggsy should be home by late afternoon, depending on how long he's kept at Lady Forrester-Grey's house with the other hired gardeners. They should hopefully have plenty of time to have go shopping and then have dinner.

"We can put the tree right there." Eggsy points to an open space in front of the living room window. He studies the room, then gestures at the stairs. "Maybe some garland or something around the banister?" He narrows his eyes, picturing it in his head.

Then he looks at Harry with another sharp grin. "What are your thoughts on mistletoe?"

"I think that I hardly need a plant to remind me to kiss you," Harry says. "But if you think you need it…"

Eggsy stares at him for a moment, his expression blank with surprise. Then he laughs. "Fucking hell."

"You ought to kiss me now, just for implying I need a reminder," Harry says smugly. All in all he's quite pleased with how this conversation is going.

"You oughta kiss _me_ for accusing me of implying you need a reminder," Eggsy says. "All I wondered was if we should get some for the holiday and all."

Harry sets his laptop aside and rises to his feet. "Is that what we were talking about?" he murmurs. "I forgot in all the excitement of being slandered over my non-existent inability to remember to kiss you."

"Something like that," Eggsy says. He slides off the couch and stands up. "I don't really remember, what with being wrongfully accused and all."

They meet in the middle, and there's enough kissing then (and the rest of the night) that the subject of mistletoe is never brought up again.

****

It's bitterly cold the next morning, the skies an aching shade of blue that makes Harry feel restless and uncomfortable in his own skin. He recognises the signs by now, knows he's going to spend as much of the day outside as possible, seeking escape from that cell in Kentucky he left behind six months ago.

He doesn't say anything to Eggsy, though. He doesn't want to give Eggsy anything to think about besides his mission today. And he knows Eggsy worries about him when he gets like this, when those padded walls seem closer than usual.

But there is nothing Eggsy can do to help, so Harry simply doesn't mention it. He maybe gazes longer than usual at his coat hanging on its hook, wishing he could simply _think_ it to his hand the way he should be able to do, if the world were anything at all approaching fair. But of course it isn't, and anyway fair has nothing to do with it. Things are what they are. There is nothing to be done about it but accept it and carry on.

Fortunately his schedule that day keeps him busy. He sees Eggsy off, dressed today in the blond wig, the fake goatee softening the line of his jaw in such a way that Harry wants very badly to trace it with his fingertips. Instead he settles for giving Eggsy a deep kiss good-bye, savouring the unusual scratch of facial hair on his lips and chin. 

He puts in a couple fruitless hours at his desk, then he's away, taking the Tube across the city to attend a luncheon as Henry DeVere. The event is for business leaders who are looking for ways to help the local community or some such nonsense. It's perfectly ridiculous, but Harry is glad to go, if only to see and be seen, lending weight to this cover identity he's maintained for so many years.

Afterward Harry walks part of the way back to the shop. It's terribly cold and he feels sorry for Eggsy having to work outside in this weather. He wishes he had thought to wear a scarf, but except for that minor inconvenience, he's fine with the cold. He doesn't even mind the occasional gust of wind ruining his carefully styled hair or flattening his coat against his body. The cold, the wind, the smell of exhaust as cars drive past, they're all things he didn't have in that room. All things he is still so grateful to have now.

Eventually he gives in and hails a cab to take him back to Savile Row. It's warm in the shop, a fire blazing on the hearth, Tristan standing behind the counter. "Good afternoon, Arthur."

Fifteen minutes later he's in the workroom, an apron tied about his waist so he doesn't get chalk on his suit, a half-finished pair of trousers laid out in front of him. This morning he couldn't have focused enough to sew anything, but the lunch and the walk through the cold city did their job. He feels more himself again, able to go on about his day without having to force himself to go through the motions.

Nonetheless he doesn't get much done. Merlin pings his glasses with the aggravating news that both Kay and Bors are insisting Harry do something about the underground railway.

"I'm not sure what it is you expect me to do," he says. "I can hardly ask a crew to go out there and do the work in one day, then dart them so they don't remember what they've done."

"I should think not," Merlin replies. But that's all he says. No offering up his own idea.

Harry sighs. "I'll think on it."

"I'll pass that along," Merlin says.

Harry glares at the trousers he's been working on. He's lost his concentration now, and there's no getting back to them. "Have you heard from Eggsy?"

"As a matter of fact he's on his way back," Merlin says.

His irritation over the damn railway disappears. Harry looks around the workroom, empty except for himself, and very nearly smiles at the wall. "Everything go all right?"

"It seems to have," Merlin says.

Hopefully it went better than yesterday. He doesn't want to see the look on Eggsy's face if he thinks he's failed two days in a row.

"Tell him to meet me upstairs," Harry says. He unties the apron and pulls it over his head. His step is light as he crosses the room to a row of pegs lining the wall. He hangs up the apron, sparing a moment to whisk his hand down its length, brushing away chalk dust and lint.

Then he's headed upstairs to wait for Eggsy.

****

It's most certainly not protocol to hold a debrief while en route to a night of shopping for Christmas decorations, but needs must, and all that. Or so Harry tells himself. Whatever he needs to justify the situation. After all, it's hardly like anyone is listening to them.

The shops are hideously crowded; they have to edge their way past displays and mannequins and people texting on their phones. No one pays them the least bit of attention, although Harry does keep a watchful eye about them, ready to halt the conversation the moment it seems like anyone has suddenly become interested in what they have to say.

"I think the ornaments is down that aisle," Eggsy says, pointing at his intended target. "So anyway, this gardener was real helpful. They said Lady F has been meeting with strangers in the greenhouse. They said the last time was three weeks ago."

Harry pushes his way past two elderly ladies who have stopped dead in the middle of the aisle. "They?"

Eggsy shrugs. "That's what they said they wanted to be called."

Harry thinks on this for a second, then dismisses it. Whatever. It's not his business.

Eggsy goes on with his story as they start down the aisle containing box after box of shiny Christmas tree ornaments. "They said Lady F meets these blokes in the greenhouse because it's soundproof or something like that. It's far enough from the house that no one can really see what's going on in there. Plus she can see anyone coming."

There will almost certainly be someone stationed near the greenhouse on the night of the party to keep wandering guests from getting too close. That doesn't worry Harry, though. Either he or Roxy will be able to get inside without too much trouble; he has no doubt of that.

"Whenever she meets with someone, she makes this gardener work there, on stuff near the door," Eggsy says. He glances down the aisle to where a young couple is bickering over two boxes of glass bulbs, then says, "She wants them to keep an eye out, that kind of thing. They told me they mostly just keep their head down and work, but sometimes they've seen her taking stuff from whoever she's meeting."

"I don't suppose your gardener friend would recognise a photo of Jacques Duvalier," Harry says.

Eggsy shakes his head. "I thought of that, showed them a picture. They didn't know him."

This is unfortunate, although not entirely unexpected. Harry glowers at the nearest box, which contains rather pretty red and white striped glass balls. "I'm surprised someone would tell you all this, considering they work for the lady in question, and thought you were only hired help for the day."

Eggsy looks a bit embarrassed. "We was talking about how weird rich people are. They think she buys drugs and doesn't want anyone to know, so that's who she meets. They think she tries to hide it by meeting her buyer in the greenhouse."

Harry nods. For someone who doesn't know the truth, it's a plausible theory. For him, though, it only means that the greenhouse must be something they focus on, the night of the party. "I don't suppose you were able to get inside?"

"No," Eggsy says. He takes a box of silver ornaments off the shelf and studies them. "I couldn't get close enough. It was off-limits to the hired staff; only the real gardeners could go in there."

Harry nods. There probably won't be any evidence left by the time the party starts, but it's still a good idea to check it out. He can do it himself, he decides, while Eggsy and Roxy work the interior of the house.

"Harry." Eggsy puts the box back on the shelf and turns to him. "You know after she's arrested, all her staff will lose their jobs."

Yes, he knows. Lady Forrester-Grey has no immediate family. If she goes to prison, the staff will be dismissed. The house itself might even be put up for sale.

"We'll find something for your gardener," Harry assures him. "Perhaps even at Kingsman." After all, they'll need someone to tend the grounds at the new manor. "As long as their information proves to be the real thing and not a trap."

"It's not," Eggsy says confidently. "I mean, it's real."

Harry selects a box of gold ornaments shaped like bells. "Then I don't think there's anything to worry about."

Eggsy nods. "Okay." He glances again at the couple at the far end of the aisle, who have yet to move. "Did you need me to go back in there?"

"Absolutely not," Harry says. Twice is already taking a risk. He refuses to send Eggsy in a third time, disguise or no. It's just too dangerous. "You've done what everything we could ask."

"Yeah, but I didn't—" Eggsy starts to say.

"You did _everything_ we could have asked," Harry says. He keeps his voice low but firm. He wants there to be no argument on this point.

Eggsy breathes in deep, then slowly exhales. "Yeah," he says. "Okay."

Harry holds up the box of gold bells. "What do you think of these?"

****

The Christmas tree is too big for their window and Harry cuts his thumb on a sharp box edge, but at last the decorations are all in place. Their house glows with white light and smells of pine. JB sniffed curiously at everything at first, but he's curled up on his bed now, watching them dolefully. 

Eggsy stacks empty ornament boxes on the coffee table. "Looks good," he approves.

It really does, and Harry smiles. "What does it look like from the street?"

Eggsy doesn't even hesitate. He jerks his head toward the door. "Let's find out."

So they end up standing in the middle of the street, shivering in the cold while they stare at the tree blazing in the front window. Harry wraps both arms around his torso and wishes he could reach for his coat with that delicate mental hand. He doesn't do it, of course. But he _really_ wishes he could. He's terribly curious to know if he could actually do it from out here, if the coat would magically appear in his hand, translocated from its place in the front closet. "It looks lovely."

"Yeah," Eggsy says with satisfaction. "We did good."

"Yes, we did," Harry says. 

Eggsy looks at the tree a bit longer, then shifts his feet. He tucks his hands under his armpits. "Fuck, it's freezing."

Without a word Harry starts for the house. As he draws near, the light in the window washes over him, pushing the darkness out and away until he's enclosed in a nimbus of white. 

"Wait," Eggsy says before he can open the front door. 

Harry turns toward him, shivering, expectant. 

When Eggsy kisses him, though, he forgets all about the cold. He even forgets to worry that the neighbours will see. 

"You're fucking beautiful, standing in the light like that," Eggsy says. His breath warms Harry's lips.

Harry says nothing. They stand literally inches from the front door and the lure of hot tea and a warm bed. But he makes no move to go anywhere. Not while Eggsy is at his side. 

"But I've always thought that," Eggsy continues. "Ever since I seen you outside that station in Holborn."

This pleases Harry far more than is proper, he freely admits. He remembers that morning well, arranging his oh-so-casual pose, his exact location on the steps, the carefully rehearsed first words he planned to say. Words he never did say after all, because the reality of Eggsy had so far eclipsed the imaginary that his prepared speech had been immediately rendered insignificant.

Eggsy nudges his cheek with a cold nose. "And I still think that."

Harry only has to tilt his head a fraction of an inch to claim Eggsy's lips. He knows perfectly well how foolish he is to stand out here in the cold, where anyone might see them, but he doesn't care. Let the world see.

Yes, let them see. Let them hurl insults, rocks, bullets. He can take anything for himself. But he will never stand by and let anyone hurt Eggsy. He will always be right here, ready to protect Eggsy, to hold him close, to let him know how very loved he is.

Which is all rather romantic, but not practical at all. Fortunately, after only a few seconds, Eggsy pulls away with an exaggerated shiver. "Fuck this. Let's go in."

"Oh thank God," Harry says. 

****

It's cold and dreary the day of the party, with snow forecast for some areas. Harry schedules two cars to pick them up; one for himself and one for Eggsy, which will then go pick up Roxy Morton.

He has the irrational urge to assign more agents, order them to take up positions inside and around the house. There hasn't been any new information, and there are no new developments. The cameras Eggsy planted at the doors and on the wall behind the stage are all functioning as they should, and in fact have been since their installation. Unfortunately none of them have provided any useful intel. If Duvalier is at the house, he hasn't left it. And Lady Forrester-Grey did not use the stage to rehearse her speech, so whatever she plans to announce at midnight remains a mystery. They know nothing more than they did four days ago.

It's not really all that surprising. And there have been plenty of missions throughout the years when Harry operated successfully off even less information that he has now. But he still has a very bad feeling about this particular mission.

He just knows it's not going to end well.

****

They know their roles. Merlin is in his temporary home above the shop, at the ready. Harry takes one final look at his reflection and breathes in deep. "Merlin."

Merlin answers right away, his voice over the glasses familiar and welcome. "Arthur."

Harry hesitates. He has shared his apprehensions with no one, and now it's too late to try to explain.

"Everything is ready," Merlin says.

He nods. That is reassuring, but nothing less than he expected.

"If you're having second thoughts," Merlin starts to say. 

The implication stings, that his hesitance comes from fear, that he's been out of the field too long, that memories of his last mission might be affecting him now.

"I most certainly am not," Harry says firmly. "And should you ever say something like that again, you will find yourself out of a job."

There is a moment of silence when he can imagine Merlin glowering at his view of the wall in Harry's loo, which is all that he can currently see through the Kingsman glasses. No doubt Merlin is wondering how serious he is. It's a question that would have been irrelevant before Kentucky, before Merlin's mistrust came between them. These days, though...

"I apologise," Merlin says stiffly. "I'm sure you're perfectly prepared."

"I am," Harry says. "And so is Eggsy."

There's another hesitation, this one as Merlin realises the true meaning of Harry's call. "I'll keep a close eye on him," he promises.

"Please do," Harry says. He knows Merlin would have done so anyway, but it eases some of his worry to hear it said out loud. "Thank you."

"He'll be fine," Merlin says. "You all will."

"We'll find out," Harry says.

****

Eggsy is incredibly handsome in his tuxedo. Just the sight of him makes Harry smile, and his pulse quickens.

"Damn," Eggsy breathes. "Look at you."

Harry stands still for the inspection of his own tux, appreciating the way Eggsy looks at him with such admiration and yes, lust.

"Wish you could've been my date," Eggsy says.

"As do I," Harry replies. It's not a good idea, though, and they both know it. Society might be making strides forward as a whole, but the type of people who will be at this party are not the type to look with approval upon an old man and his much younger male partner. There are occasions when it could work in their favour to attract attention, but this is not one of those times. Tonight they need to blend in, to be just two more normal guests.

It's their first mission together, possibly their only one, yet they can't actually _be_ together.

Eggsy kisses him, sweet and light, one hand at his back. Harry breathes him in, the scent of cologne, hair pomade, and soap. He cups Eggsy's jaw, feeling smooth skin. "You look lovely," he murmurs against Eggsy's mouth. He follows this with another kiss.

And he vows that there will be more missions. He will prove himself to Merlin, to all of them tonight. He is more than a man behind a desk. The time bomb in his mind need not detonate, need not prevent him from doing all the things he wants to do.

Kingsman has already risen from the ashes. Now it's his turn.

****

There are fewer people at the party than Harry expected, which is surprising. Maybe the weather kept them home, or word of Lady Forrester-Grey's political leanings. Whatever the reason, it's a welcome revelation.

He keeps to the fringes of the party, sipping occasionally from a glass of water or helping himself to some hors d'oeuvres. He watches as Lancelot and Galahad both pass in and out of his line of sight, and is pleased to see that they blend in perfectly.

Merlin provides constant support, switching back and forth between speaking to all three of them and communicating privately with Harry only. There isn't much to say, though, for the first couple hours.

It's not until well after eleven o'clock that they're at last able to put things in motion. Lady Forrester-Grey has left the ballroom, and most of the guests are either dancing to the band up on the stage, or standing in front of the numerous tables loaded with food and drink. A good number of them are either drunk or close to it; the spirits have been flowing freely, particularly the holiday punch, which according to Roxy is incredibly strong.

The better to keep people here, Harry muses. And compliant, too, with slower reaction times.

"We ready?" Eggsy murmurs. He's across the room, visible to Harry only when the couple closest to him sways to their left as they dance.

"Yes," Roxy replies. She's at one of the buffet tables, pretending to dither over two trays of small cakes.

"Yes," Harry says.

"Then let's do this," Eggsy says.

Harry starts moving toward his right, away from the dancing couple and the band on the stage. He smiles and nods at random guests, the way he has done all night, but walks steadily and with purpose toward the double doors leading out of the ballroom.

There are people in the hall beyond, most of them clustered in small groups, talking to each other. Some of them carry glasses of holiday punch or plates of food. Light shines off jewelry and cufflinks, only to be swallowed by the thick carpet underfoot.

Harry walks past them all, just one more gentleman who's had enough to drink that he needs the toilets. Only he doesn't stop here, but turns down the hall and keeps going, toward a large set of French doors that open up on the gardens.

There are only two people outside, both of them shivering as they smoke forbidden cigarettes in the cold. Harry nods vaguely to them but keeps going. The night air is bitingly chill, and he thinks longingly of his greatcoat, taken at the start of the evening by a smiling valet.

A single light marks the greenhouse, but he would know where it was even if it were pitch dark. He's studied the satellite photos of the manor and its grounds until he knows the layout by heart. He knows Eggsy is currently sneaking up the stairs to Lady Forrester-Grey's bedroom, which is located in the cornermost suite on the top floor. He knows Roxy is still circulating around the ground floor, keeping an eye out for anyone who might have noticed their absence, while always on the lookout for Jacques Duvalier along with the lady herself.

He walks through the gardens, passing a few other people as he goes, following a cobblestone path that winds in a lazy curve but always keeps the greenhouse in sight. The light is set on the outside of the building, beside the door; he's too far away yet to be able to see through the windows and tell if anyone is inside.

But in this respect, Harry has an advantage no one else can claim. Three rapid blinks and the prosthetic eye Kingsman provided for him clicks over into infrared mode.

He hasn't needed to use the night vision before, of course, although he's practised with it. Still, it takes a moment for him to adjust, keeping his right eye closed so he's not bombarded with regular sight as well.

What he sees is slightly reassuring. There are sources of heat inside the greenhouse, but they are only heaters meant to keep the plants inside warm. None of them are human beings.

"Clear ahead," he says. "I'm going in."

"Copy that," Merlin says. 

"I'm headed for her room," Eggsy says over the glasses. His voice is hushed, more for the benefit of Harry and Roxy than anything else; Merlin of course can see it all.

Moving with the confidence of those who are certain they are unseen, Harry walks up to the greenhouse. He blinks rapidly, restoring normal vision to the prosthetic, shivers in the cold, and reaches for the door.

"Um, guys." Eggsy's voice is still low, but now there is a note of strain lacking just moments before. "I found Lady F. and our biochemist." He pauses slightly. "And a bomb."

Harry freezes, his hand still outstretched, poised to grab the handle of the greenhouse door. "What kind of bomb?"

"The kind that'll release a plague virus and kill everyone," Eggsy says. "You know, just your usual end-of-the-world scenario."

She really is finishing what Richmond Valentine started. Momentarily overwhelmed, Harry closes his eyes.

"Are you sure?" Roxy says.

"Pretty fucking sure," Eggsy snaps.

Harry taps at his glasses, opening the private channel between Merlin and himself. "Give me his visual."

"Done," Merlin says, and on the upper left lens of his glasses, a new image comes into view. It's what Eggsy sees. And it isn't pretty.

Jacques Duvalier is there, all right. So is Lady Forrester-Grey. So are five other people, four men and one woman, all of whom appear to be there quite willingly. They stand around a device the size of a leather briefcase, but no briefcase ever looked like this. The case is made of glass and the item inside is most definitely not just a laptop or some fountain pens.

"Well, now we know what her Christmas present to everyone is," Eggsy mutters.

"Get out of there," Harry orders. Eggsy can certainly take on seven people by himself, but there is the bomb to consider. While he's otherwise engaged, any one of them could take control of it.

"I'm on my way," Roxy says.

"I can do this," Eggsy says. "But it's gotta be now. They already started activating it. They're getting ready to set the timer now." The view through his glasses shifts as he momentarily glances downward. Harry sees his arm enter the frame, then disappear, only to reappear a moment later with the golden lighter clasped in his hand.

He whirls around, a cry of denial frozen on his lips.

The explosion blooms in the far corner of the house. Fire streaks from shattered windows. At this distance, Harry can see it all, dwarfing the far more intense fire raging in that little square on his glasses.

"Get everyone out!" Eggsy yells, then he's charging forward.

Everything happens so fast then, yet it's all so terribly vivid and clear.

Harry breaks into a run, headed back for the house. In the inset on his glasses, Eggsy attacks, using the explosion as cover. The sudden, wild nature of his ambush forces Duvalier and the others away from the glass case enclosing the bomb.

Fire reaches for the sky from the broken windows. The first cries of fear go up from those people who were outside, either smoking or taking a walk through the gardens. The fire alarm starts to go off, a piercing noise Harry hears over the glasses and more faintly, with his own ears.

The view from Eggsy's glasses jerks backward in a sickening manner Harry knows from personal experience. Eggsy has been struck.

Harry reels, stumbles, nearly falls. He runs faster.

Roxy is guiding people toward the exit, her voice calm but firm. Eggsy is still now, the view from his glasses unmoving. "It's okay," he says breathlessly. "I got 'em."

"And the bomb?" Merlin asks.

"Okay," Eggsy says. He's holding it in both hands; blood streaks the back of his left hand. "I don't think they got a chance to activate it."

"You're hurt," Harry says. He's in the gardens now, approaching the first knots of people who now gather outside, staring in fear and wonder at the rapidly growing fire on the second floor.

"I'm okay," Eggsy says.

The floor drops out from beneath him.

Harry witnesses the collapse himself, caught outside with his heart lodged in his throat. He sees it as well through that small square on his glasses, the view blurring as Eggsy falls through the floor and into the room below.

Yet it seems to take forever before Eggsy lands, the image from his glasses feed jolting to a halt. He makes a pained outcry that spears Harry in the chest.

People run through the doors, hurrying outside, crying and shoving each other in their haste to get clear of the house. They cluster together in the gardens, jostling Harry where he stands stock still, staring up at the fire, crying out in fright as flames reach high into the night.

The entire upper quadrant of the manor is ablaze now, the fire spreading as the burning debris from the upper floors catches the furniture and draperies in the lower floor.

"Eggsy." He isn't even aware of using Eggsy's real name.

" 'm okay," Eggsy says. He sounds more breathless than ever. The view from his glasses does not change; he's facing a mound of burning debris. An enormous bed, completely on fire, dominates his field of vision. "But I'm stuck."

Harry is moving again the second Eggsy finishes speaking. The horror of the situation clutches at his throat, but he keeps going. He cannot -- _will not_ \-- abandon Eggsy to such a dreadful fate. 

The last of the partygoers are just now streaming through the doors into the garden. Harry forces his way past them, ignoring a few hands that reach for him, trying to prevent him from going back inside. "Status report."

"I can't move," Eggsy says. "I got the bomb. It's okay. But…there's too much fire. Stuff. I can't get out."

Roxy looms ahead, meeting Harry just inside the hall. They share an agonised look, equally white with fear, then she is behind him as he hurries through the manor.

"Arthur!" Merlin sounds almost frantic, the only one of them to remember protocol and use their code names. "What are you doing?"

"You know bloody well what I'm doing," Harry says through clenched jaws. The smoke alarm continues to shrill overhead, a pulsating wail that does nothing for the panic seizing his heart. He can smell smoke now; the old manor is going up in flames with terrifying speed.

"You can't go in there!" Merlin yells.

"Harry?" Eggsy sounds aghast, but even so, his voice is noticeably weaker. He must be bleeding out from his injuries. Injuries he failed to mention when he gave his status, a fact that didn't escape Harry's notice. He doesn't want them to know he's hurt. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Harry doesn't even break stride. He memorised the blueprints of the house days before so he would know the layout of the rooms, so he could estimate where Lady Forrester-Grey and her pet biochemist might be hiding whatever they were planning. He knows that Eggsy lies in the library now, hundreds of books feeding the flames. He knows there are couches and tables in that room, that if Eggsy landed badly on one of them, he could very well have spinal injuries in addition to whatever wounds he bears.

He knows that he has got to get Eggsy out of there.

Fire licks along the ceiling. Smoke rolls thick and dark through the hall. Harry coughs and courches down a little to avoid the worst of it. He knows he should turn back, but he doesn't even think of stopping. He just buries his nose and mouth in the crook of his arm and barrels forward.

"Harry, don't you dare! Just get out of here!" Eggsy yells. Harry can actually hear him now, his voice coming from behind the door at the end of the hall.

"You know I can't do that," Harry says, and flings open the door.

The library is an inferno, already half-engulfed in flame. There is no more ceiling; up above fire roars in what used to be Lady Margaret Forrester-Grey's bedroom. The explosion Eggsy caused with the lighter, that brilliant excuse to evacuate the house, weakened the floor enough for it to collapse.

Eggsy lies near the windows in a pile of smashed timbers and plaster. He's curled on his left side, both arms wrapped around the bomb; the glass case has shattered, but the device inside still seems intact.

Eggsy, however, is not. It's clear from how he lies that he is badly hurt. Blood pools around him, a gleam of liquid reflecting the blaze surrounding him.

Their eyes meet through the smoke. Eggsy shakes his head, his eyes wide in terror. "No."

Fire races along the walls, devouring the books and the wooden bookshelves. The curtains are already enveloped. A line of burning debris stands between Eggsy and the door where Harry stands, furniture from the bedroom that fell with him when the floor gave way.

The smoke is making it difficult to breathe. It burns Harry's eyes and obscures his view of Eggsy. It seems to fog his hearing too, rendering the voices shouting in his ear into a meaningless jumble of sounds.

"Don't," Eggsy pleads and coughs. "Just go."

As if he could ever turn his back on Eggsy again.

It's so easy, so unbelievably easy, he wonders why he's denied himself all these months. He draws the air toward him, wrapping it around himself like a shield. It's even simpler to reach out with invisible hands, to lift the blazing debris that lies between him and Eggsy and throw it into the far corners of the room.

Eggsy screams, but Harry doesn't hear it.

He works faster now, standing still, focused on what he must do. Pain rips through his skull but he ignores it. Time is short for them both. He can't afford to be distracted. 

He wraps another bubble of clean air about Eggsy, then lifts him free of the debris that is starting to take fire just beneath him. Eggsy screams again, in pain, in denial, but he never once lets go of the bomb meant to kill the world.

As Harry does not let go of him.

They can't go back the way he came. That will take too long, time neither of them have. Despite the protective shield enwrapping him, the world wavers in his vision, pulsing in and out. He tastes blood, warm copper sliding down the back of his throat.

There is only one way out now. Harry flings out a hand and the windows of the library explode outward in a shower of glass and flame. What's left of the curtains whoosh through the gap, then they are gone in a spray of cinders.

They seem to float, almost, through the window. He can't feel anything anymore, doesn't know if he's walking or stumbling or how he's moving. Eggsy staggers beside him, clutching the bomb in one hand, the other wrapped around his waist.

Then they're outside, chill air washing over them both, and he knows he's lost his grip on the shields keeping them safe from the flames and the smoke. But it's all right now because they made it, they're safe.

Eggsy is safe.

There is no one here on this side of the house, so close to the flames. No one to watch as Eggsy sets the bomb gently on the grass and whirls on him. He can hardly stand upright; he reels, blood slicking the black of his tuxedo. "What did you do?" he cries. "Oh God, Harry, what did you do?"

Merlin. Merlin must get them help. Eggsy is bleeding out, already failing. It's not enough to have brought him from the flames.

"Why did you do that?" Eggsy demands. He grabs hold of Harry's lapels.

Harry would like to answer him, but before he can say a single word, an agonising flare of white pain bolts through his head. He hears a choked cry, but it can't have come from him, it can't.

He only knows he's falling because the world tilts around him. Because Eggsy follows him down, bleeding and shaking and crying.

He can't feel anything. He's grateful for that. And for this, his last chance to look at Eggsy. To love him.

Because he would do it all over again. He would do it without the least hesitation, with no regrets.

Because Eggsy is saved.

The pain tears through him again. It isn't white this time.

It's dark.

********

 

_III: the world of you and I_

 

"I still can't believe you," Eggsy says, echoing what has turned out to be a common refrain this past week. He turns his head slightly, the better to try and look at Harry as he pushes Eggsy's wheelchair down the hall. "When people ask me what you got me for Christmas, I'm gonna say a heart attack. He gave me a fucking heart attack 'cause I thought he had just killed himself pulling me out of a burning building with nothing but his mind."

Harry says nothing to this. He's heard it plenty over the past few days, and not just from Eggsy. Here, however, is another one of the perks of being Arthur. He can be scolded by Merlin and Roxy and Alistair and any number of others, but none of them can do more than scold. He is Arthur. He did what he did, and he answers to no one.

The walls down here are an innocuous cream colour, designed to be soothing. It's a far cry from the Medical wing at their old HQ, but Harry is immensely proud of how far his staff has come in so little time. It's fortunate, too, because otherwise they would have ended up in hospital, where secrets are so much harder to keep.

Roxy kept Eggsy alive that night, clamping her bare hands over the wound in Eggsy's back, staunching the blood while counting breaths until the extraction team could arrive. While ambulances and firefighters dealt with the party guests clustered in the garden, Kingsman had quietly taken care of its own.

It's perhaps too soon for Eggsy to be released, but here is another perk of being Arthur. Harry had promised to bring Eggsy promptly back here should he show any signs of a relapse, or should his recovery seem unduly slowed. It's a promise he means to honor. He's been through too much to lose Eggsy now simply because neither one of them could stand this place an hour longer.

"I mean, I just can't," Eggsy says. There's no heat to his words, though; he exhausted his anger days ago. Now he sounds more bewildered than anything, like he's still trying to figure out just _why_ Harry had risked death in order to save him.

"I don't see why not," Harry says. They turn the corner, headed for the lift that will take them to the ground floor and the outdoors.

Eggsy just shakes his head, clearly not wanting to get into it. Which is just fine with Harry.

The telekinesis, that mysterious ability he gained from Valentine's mind control device, is gone forever. He doesn't have to test that theory to know it's true. It's a knowledge seated deep in his bones, his nerves, his brain, as true as the facts of his height, his blood type, his inherited predilection for high blood pressure. He does not question it at all.

There are so many things they will never know. Perhaps it was always meant to be a finite power, something not meant to be squandered on escape attempts and useless temper tantrums. More likely it was never meant to be at all, a fluke, a once-in-a-lifetime chance that he used up far too soon.

That answer doesn't satisfy Eggsy, though. It hasn't, not from the first time he woke up. Over and over he's returned to that same line of thought, that same incredulous line. _I can't believe you did that._

Harry is tired of hearing it. _And I could say the same about you_ , he could say. _Feeling as though you had to do it all by yourself, refusing to let Lancelot or I help you_. But he says nothing, not wanting to trudge over this too-familiar ground again, circling around the same discussion they've already had several times.

It all comes down to what Harry once arrogantly wrote in an email, calling it "the makings of a Kingsman." That impulse to do the right thing, to defend and safeguard with no expectation of reward or even acknowledgment. 

For Eggsy that impulse is aimed outward, at others. Save innocent lives. Save the world. 

But Harry is more selfish. When it truly mattered, he spared no thought for the bomb and the plague it was carrying, or the threat it meant to humanity itself. He had cared only for Eggsy, thought only of Eggsy. 

He has no regrets. 

Certainly he doesn't mourn the loss of his telekinesis. It was more a burden than a boon, a curse he would have gladly given up in exchange for a regular life.

And now it's gone. He never again has to worry about accidentally using it, changing the channel on the telly merely by thinking about it. He never has to fear that it will slip out of his control and give himself irreparable brain damage from something as simple as shutting the door from across the room. 

He is just a normal man now. As "normal" as someone like him can be.

"You must be the luckiest man alive," Eggsy grumbles. Which is also something Harry has heard all week, and not just from Eggsy. 

But it's true. Various tests have all shown the same thing. He has suffered no brain damage, no permanent harm from that final use of a power he was never even supposed to have. 

"Of course I am," he says. "I have you, haven't I?"

Eggsy tries to turn around further in his chair, a move that makes him go pale with pain. He's incredibly lucky too; the stab wound Lady Forrester-Grey gave him missed his kidney by less than an inch. "That's not gonna work, you know."

"I have no idea what you mean," Harry says in his most I-am-perfectly-innocent voice.

"Trying to butter me up like that," Eggsy says. He gestures a little as he talks, but not as much as he used to. The cast on his left forearm is black and lightweight -- and like most things Kingsman it is both bulletproof and contains a few cleverly concealed compartments designed to hide secret objects. "I ain't falling for it."

Harry stops pushing the wheelchair just long enough to lean down and kiss Eggsy's temple. "I would expect nothing less from such a discerning spy as yourself."

Eggsy turns his face away, but Harry can tell by the set of his jaw that he's trying very hard not to smile. "Cheater."

"All's fair in love and war," Harry replies.

"Are we at war?" Eggsy teases. 

"I should hope not," Harry says, although he has truly wondered that a few times this past week. "Then I would have to return the Christmas present I got you."

"No fair," Eggsy grumbles. "I didn't get you nothing. Kinda hard to go Christmas shopping when I'm stuck in hospital."

 _You're alive_ , Harry thinks. _That's all the gift I could ever want_. But he doesn't say it. He doesn't want to ruin Eggsy's high spirits, which are the lightest they've been since the night of the party. And he's tired of all the serious talk, the constant scolding for something he has absolutely no remorse over. 

"You can make it up to me when you're feeling better," he says. 

"Yeah?" Eggsy asks. He sounds intrigued. "How's that?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something," Harry says. 

Eggsy finally gives in and laughs.

They've reached the lift by then, and Harry presses the button to the first floor. The gold of the doors catches his reflection, giving him a glimpse of his own unrepressed smile.

 _You're more dangerous now you've got that thing out of your head_. Merlin had said that to him while he sat beside Eggsy's bed, waiting, yearning, for that first moment when Eggsy would wake up and they would know for sure how badly hurt he was.

He had glared up at Merlin then, already taking offence, angry words springing to his lips.

But Merlin had looked…humbled. Almost awed. Like he had finally understood why they were together, why they were so in love with each other. _Nothing's going to stop you now if he's ever in any kind of danger. And he would do the same for you._

Later that night, after Eggsy had woken up, after Harry had given him a somewhat tearful kiss and touched his face all over just to make sure he was all right -- after all that, he and Merlin had finally sat down and had a long overdue talk. There had been some raised voices and some accusations that could never be taken back, but in the end Harry had left feeling as though things were finally set to rights between them. He even plans to test that theory as soon as possible by making ridiculous demands of his friend, just to see if Merlin tells him off instead of meekly giving in the way he's done for the past six months.

He's quite looking forward to it.

The lift doors open and Harry pushes the wheelchair inside, then carefully turns it around so Eggsy is facing forward. He presses the button for the ground floor and waits for the doors to close again.

The moment they slide shut, Harry comes around the side of the wheelchair so he can properly look at Eggsy. So he can take hold of his chin and gently tip his head up. So he can lean down and kiss Eggsy, sweet and warm.

Eggsy reaches up with one hand, clutching at his arm. Kissing him back with surprising intensity for someone who technically shouldn't even be leaving the hospital just yet.

The lift is swift; in no time the doors open, and they are forced to move apart. Harry lets his thumb trail along Eggsy's jawline as he pulls away. Eggsy's eyes follow him as he moves around the wheelchair again.

As expected, Dr Collington is waiting just beyond the doors. Normally he would have been the one to escort Eggsy out of here and to the car outside, taking this last chance to dispense medical wisdom and recovery advice. But Harry had adamantly said he would be the one to do it, so now Collington stands here, waiting on their arrival.

Harry likes the man, remembers the time when he was very nearly their next Percival. But Alistair had shot his dog while Brett Collington had shied away, and so he had been sent home. A year later, though, the head doctor at HQ had been diagnosed with cancer, and it had been clear that soon the position would be available. Collington had been called back for an interview, and he had never left.

He looks at Harry now with a mixture of impatience and disgruntled bafflement. No one can figure it out, least of all Dr Collington. When the extraction team arrived at Lady Forrester-Grey's house, Harry had been unconscious, blood pooling beneath his head from his nose and more ominously, one ear. According to Roxy Morton, he had seized once, mercifully brief, but long enough for her to see it and be convinced that he was having a fatal stroke.

But when Harry had woken up to find himself in the new Medical wing, he had suffered no more than a mild headache, the kind of dull ache that results from reading too long in poor light, or a stressful day. And within a few hours, even that had been gone. He had felt tired, but otherwise perfectly healthy. No one could explain it, especially once his test results had come back showing there was none of the brain damage he had been so direly warned about.

"Feeling all right, Galahad?" Collington asks.

Eggsy nods. "Yeah. Sure."

The doctor smiles and starts walking down the hall. Harry follows, pushing the wheelchair. He can feel Eggsy's impatience now, the shame at being wheeled out like this instead of being allowed to walk.

Collington dispenses advice as they go along, all things Harry has already heard. He had a private interview with the doctor before going to Eggsy's room for the last time, wanting to be sure he knew everything to expect once they got home. He has no intention of letting Eggsy relapse or pull his stitches out, or hurt himself by overdoing it. Eggsy will hate being forced to take it easy for a little while, but Collington had confided that despite all his complaining, Eggsy is not a bad patient. He understands the necessity for rest, and in all likelihood he'll comply with the doctor's orders.

Harry had been glad to hear this, but he intends to make absolutely sure of it. He never again wants Eggsy to be hurt, to be in pain, to be in danger. Even if that danger is nothing more than reaching too far forward for the TV remote while sitting on the couch.

It's early afternoon and it's cold out; the wind is picking up. It tosses their hair about and sends shudders through Eggsy's shirt. He flinches. "Fuck!"

Before anyone can say anything about the blanket he so obviously forgot to drape over Eggsy's shoulders, Harry opens the passenger door. "Ready?"

Eggsy clutches the arms of the wheelchair and levers himself up. He pales a little in pain, his mouth flattening into a thin line. Quickly Harry moves in, putting one arm about his shoulders to support his weight, while Collington pulls the wheelchair back and out of the way.

"I'm okay," Eggsy says.

Reluctantly Harry lets go of him. He watches Eggsy take the few steps to the car, listing slightly to the left, his body somewhat hunched about the wound he got when Lady Forrester-Grey stabbed him. Eggsy moves haltingly, but he doesn't stop. He keeps going until he's able to lower himself onto the front seat.

Harry makes sure he's all inside, then shuts the car door. He looks over at the doctor. "Thank you," he says.

Collington nods. "Take care. And Happy Christmas."

Harry walks around the car and gets inside. He starts the engine and the heater. "All right?"

Eggsy nods. "Sure." Not that Harry would expect him to say anything different. Like him, Eggsy has a very difficult time admitting to any weakness.

Harry accepts this answer, granting Eggsy his dignity, something in short supply in hospital, as he knows from personal experience.

He holds his hand in front of the vent, making sure the air coming from it is warm enough, then starts down the drive. Eggsy rests his head on the back of the seat and closes his eyes, but doesn't ever seem to actually fall asleep.

The first part of the journey back to London passes in silence. Harry doesn't mind. Too often over the past few days they've done nothing but argue. When they aren't scolding each other about what happened that night, they've compared their reckless behaviour: Eggsy misjudging the force of an explosion he created mere feet from where he was crouched in hiding; Harry burning up the last of his telekinesis to save Eggsy. And they've compared that urge they both share to sacrifice themselves for the greater good: Eggsy refusing aid and accepting that he was going to die, the only question whether he bled to death first or the fire claimed him; Harry using the power that everyone agreed would kill him in order to save Eggsy. 

Reckless or not, though, Eggsy's plan had worked. The fire created by the grenade had been the perfect reason to evacuate the house, getting the partygoers out of the bomb's range had the worst happened and it went off. No one had died that night except the ones who had wanted to exterminate half of humanity.

One person who did escape though is Duvalier's research assistant. Lancelot has been tracking her ever for days, following her into Switzerland just this morning. Before she left England she had thanked Harry in private for the assignment.

He had looked at her, trying to fathom this response. Roxy had met his gaze without flinching and explained that she would be away now for the holidays and not have to force awkward small talk with relatives she really had nothing in common with.

"I'll find her," Roxy had said.

"I know you will," Harry had said. He has complete confidence in her. He fully expects a report from her by the time he and Eggsy get home, something for him to read later tonight while Eggsy sleeps.

He glances at Eggsy, wishing he knew the right words to say. He's tired of the bickering, of going over the same ground, rehashing the same arguments. He's ready to start talking about their future now that he no longer has that dark cloud in his brain and over his head. He's ready for what comes next, whatever that might be.

He's always known he would never be content with an ordinary person in his life. It's why his relationships in the past were so few, so short. He needs someone who understands the quandaries of truth and trust that only a spy can experience. He needs someone who shares his ideals, however tarnished they might be.

He needs Eggsy.

But this past week has taught him that the reality is quite different than the imagining. It's one thing to know the person you love is willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, and another thing to _know_ it, to actually be there and witness it. To know—

"Harry."

"Yes?" He looks over at Eggsy before returning his attention to the road. 

"Cut it out," Eggsy says. 

"I beg your pardon?" He's a little affronted, but more pleased to know that Eggsy's spirits remain light.

"I see you over there, overthinking everything," Eggsy says. "So cut it out."

Harry resists his initial impulse to defend himself. Why shouldn't he be happy that he's no longer living under a death sentence? Why shouldn't he be thinking of the future he and Eggsy now get to share? Why shouldn't he wish to find a way to move on from what happened in that burning house?

But they can talk about it later. And no doubt they will, for the hundredth time. For now, Eggsy is right. No more dwelling on it. No more thinking. Now is for the ride home under chill grey skies.

He turns on the radio. 

****

Even with his pain meds, Eggsy has a hard time falling asleep that night; it's difficult for him to find a comfortable position to lie in, and his restless squirming makes it almost impossible for Harry to sleep, too. It's barely dawn when he abandons the pretense altogether and rolls out of bed.

Behind him Eggsy is at last asleep, exhaustion claiming him when nothing else could. He probably won't sleep for long, but Harry is glad for this chance. Rest is the best thing for Eggsy right now.

He pulls on his dressing gown and slippers and heads for the back bedroom. There are still some boxes in here that haven't been unpacked, but the most important items are all where they need to be. He closes the door and turns on the light, his right eye wincing away from the sudden illumination.

The laptop on the desk is fully charged. Harry opens it up and sits down, considers going downstairs to make some coffee, then decides against it. He won't be here long. Or so he hopes.

He's been neglecting too many things the past few days. Some of that hasn't been by choice, like when he had to go through the latest round of neurological testing to make sure he truly has a clean bill of health. But other times he made a deliberate choice to sit with Eggsy and spend time with him rather than read through his email or watch the newest mission video feeds.

On this day of all days, though, he figures there won't be much business to sift through. And in fact he is right. There aren't many emails and Lancelot's report from Switzerland is as concise as ever. _No new leads on Lily's location. I'm still following up on that intel from Lucerne. Next report tomorrow a.m. Happy Christmas._

Harry smiles a little and mentally wishes her the same.

The other emails can all wait to be dealt with. One, however, gets his attention. It came from Merlin just after midnight. The subject header is "Berlin Report on Mission K:10268."

In times before there would have been no need to send the bomb down to Berlin for investigation, but the UK staff is just spread too thin these days. Merlin had been the one to organise the whole thing, and it's a bit of a surprise to see that he hasn't appended any comments of his own to the report, like he sometimes does.

The report is not long; Harry reads it quickly enough. Much of the chemistry is above his basic knowledge of the subject, but the summary is written in language that anyone can understand. _Chemical reactions were already occurring when Galahad interrupted the process, and were very near a chain reaction that would have been impossible to stop. This was a close one, Arthur. Too close._

Harry sends Merlin a reply acknowledging the email and wishing him a Happy Christmas.

_This was a close one, Arthur. Too close._

He hears the shuffling footsteps in the hall a few seconds before the door opens. It's barely enough time to close his email and compose his face into what he hopes is a neutral expression.

Eggsy hobbles in, obviously still half-asleep and in pain. His face is puffy, his hair is a mess, and he needs a shave. He looks beautiful.

It's funny how seeing him walk through a door always and immediately takes Harry back to that day in Kentucky, when he first saw Eggsy come through the door of his cell. He remembers the way he tensed up at the first sign of the door opening, the way he always did, mentally gathering himself to fight, to try -- again -- to make an escape. He remembers the shock of disbelief, the swift rush of pure joy and hope, only to have that hope instantly snuffed out by wary suspicion. He remembers Eggsy saying his name, the first time he had heard someone call him by name in months.

"What're you doing?" Eggsy asks sleepily.

"I'm sorry," Harry says. "I hope I didn't wake you."

Eggsy glowers at that. "Of course you didn't. I can't sleep for shit." His frown deepens. "Probably kept you up all night too. Sorry 'bout that."

"It's all right," Harry replies. "I couldn't really sleep anyway."

Eggsy glares, a response that says it all without a single word. _You love me. You're obligated to say that it's okay even when it's not._ It's obvious he feels responsible for their sleepless night, and for knowing there will be more to come in the days ahead.

Harry knows what will make him feel better, though. "You might like to read this," he says. He stands up, offering the empty chair.

Eggsy shuffles forward, leaning to the left. "What is it?"

"We got the technical report from Berlin," Harry says.

"Good ol' Amelia," Eggsy says with a small smile.

"Actually Christoph wrote this one," Harry says.

This earns him a shrug and a "Whatever."

Eggsy sinks slowly into the chair, his breath hissing a little between his teeth. Harry stands to his left, ready to aid him in any way.

It doesn't take long for Eggsy to read the report. He sits back. "So I was right."

"Yes, you were," Harry says. "You did the right thing. I couldn't be more proud of you." In spite of their bickering over the past few days, in truth he had long since forgiven Eggsy for what seemed like pure recklessness at the time, for leaping into things without waiting for Roxy's aid or even his own. But now he knows for certain that Eggsy read the situation correctly and responded in the only manner he could. Now he can put aside the misgivings and focus on what is rightly a triumph.

Eggsy savours this for a bit. Then he looks up at Harry. "You know, I never really thanked you for saving my life that night. I didn't do it before 'cause I was pissed off at you for doing it when it should've killed you." Under the healing cuts and bruises from his fall, he is very pale. "And I wouldn't've had the chance to say good-bye, or even to say _anything_ , cause you would've died so fast."

Harry doesn't know what to say to this. He always knew, of course, that Eggsy was afraid of what using the telekinesis might do to him, but they had never really talked about it. Not since that night on the plane, the one and only time they had really discussed it. He had promised never to use it again and he had meant it -- but he should have known that no promise could ever be kept when it was measured against Eggsy's life.

"I wouldn't've got to say I love you," Eggsy says. "And I do. I really fucking love you, Harry Hart." He swallows, his eyes suspiciously bright. "I thought you were dead for so long. I thought we'd never get to talk again, or make martinis, or be Kingsmen together."

"As did I," Harry says, thinking of all those long lonely days in a padded cell.

Eggsy either doesn’t hear him or ignores him. "But then I found you, and it was like all that stuff I thought we'd never get was suddenly right there in front of me. We really did get a second chance like in the movies. Only we kinda didn't, 'cause it all could've disappeared at any moment thanks to that weird shit in your head."

As if he had asked for that "weird shit" in his head. Uncertain if he is being blamed for something completely out of his control, Harry bites his tongue hard to keep from speaking up.

"But that was all bullshit," Eggsy says. "I been thinking about it a lot since the fire, and yeah, it was bullshit. Cause we been together six months now and I still fucking love you, and I just wish I had thought more about _that_ instead of wasting time thinking how I might lose you again."

He stands up, taking it slow but without flinching. As though he doesn't even notice the physical discomfort. "So when it seemed like you was about to die right in front of me because you had saved me, I couldn't take it." Eggsy stares at him, his beautiful eyes so serious. "I already watched you die once. I couldn't do it again."

Harry looks back at him, although it isn't easy. He feels nothing but dread and shame when he thinks of Eggsy sitting in that old house in Stanhope Mews, watching what he did in the church. It makes him sick to know that Eggsy saw it all happen, that Eggsy knows beyond any doubt what he is capable of.

But how much worse was it to witness that shot from Valentine? To watch the image become one of blue sky overhead, the glasses still transmitting for a while after he fell, the picture static and unchanging. There was no blood in that image, no violence, nothing but silence and stillness. Still life of a dead man.

He has to say something here. So he musters up what he hopes is a smile and says, "I hope you'll never have to."

Eggsy gives him a sour smile in return, and his lower lip trembles just the slightest. "Yeah, well, me too!" He grows serious again though. "But the thing is, whether it's mystery telekinesis or some madman's bullet, there's always gonna be that risk. 'Cause that's just who we are. It's what we do. And I always knew that, but I guess I never really _knew_ it, you know? So I just gotta get over myself, and stop letting that get in the way." He slides forward a step. "Cause I fucking love you."

"So you keep saying," Harry murmurs.

"Cause I do," Eggsy says. "And I've decided I ain't gonna let any of that other stuff get in the way. We're Kingsmen. We save the world. That's what we do. You asked me in that letter if I was ready for what came next and I thought I was, but I guess I know now that I'm really not."

Harry thinks about the way he watched Eggsy fall, the terror that choked him to see Eggsy trapped in the flames, how he had not once hesitated to cast his life away if it meant Eggsy would get to live. "I don't think any of us ever is," he says quietly.

Eggsy nods. "Yeah. I get it now."

"So am I forgiven?" he asks.

Eggsy's face crumples, a heartbeat away from tears. "Fuck yeah you are. I forgave you right away. I just couldn't admit it to myself."

Nothing can come close to the feeling of Eggsy in his arms, to know that he is holding the man he has chosen to love for the rest of his life. "I fucking love you too, you know."

Eggsy huffs out a laugh, his head resting on Harry's shoulder, his breath warm on Harry's neck. "See, all that was worth it just to hear you say it like that."

Harry smiles as they draw apart a little while still remaining in the circle of each other's arms. He leans down to kiss Eggsy, soft and sweet. "I love you, Eggsy Unwin." He gives Eggsy another kiss. "Happy Christmas."

Eggsy's eyes widen. "Oh fuck, is it really?" His astonishment is almost comical, but a bit sad as well. Apparently he's lost track of the days while being in hospital, which is not really all that surprising.

"It really is," Harry says, and hopes he can avoid being scolded for working on Christmas morning, now that Eggsy knows the date. For distraction, he kisses Eggsy yet again. "And see? No mistletoe required."

Eggsy laughs again and rolls his eyes. But the look he gives Harry is full of fond love and affection, and it's clear that he's not at all upset.

"Should we have some breakfast?" Harry asks. He had planned to get started on it after finishing up in here. He didn't get to finish going through his email, but he doesn't exactly mind having his plans derailed, considering the end result.

"Sounds good," Eggsy says. "I'm starving."

Harry closes the laptop and they head for the stairs. Eggsy still moves slowly, favoring his left side, more shuffling than picking up his feet. Harry wishes now that he had worked faster, that he had finished before Eggsy woke so he could have gone downstairs and plugged in the Christmas tree. He can even picture it, the festive tree lit up so it actually feels like the holiday, brightening the house and the morning.

The stairs are barely wide enough for them to go down together, Eggsy sort of leaning on Harry, wincing a bit more with each step the further down they go. Harry had suggested that he sleep on the couch last night, but Eggsy's pride had made him insist they go upstairs and sleep in their own room. Not to mention, he had said, he missed his own bed, and sleeping beside Harry. Faced with that argument, Harry's own insistence had crumbled instantly.

He's sorry for it now, though, wishes he had stood his ground. He hates to see Eggsy hurting, and resolves that they won't go back upstairs again until it's absolutely necessary.

They turn the corner on the stairs, and Harry pauses. It's bright in the living room, light spilling outward throughout the house. It's actually too bright for the early hour, and he can't figure it out.

Until they reach the foot of the stairs, and he sees. He stops dead, while Eggsy leans on him and smiles. "Aw, look at that. You got the tree turned on and everything." His smile widens. "Could use some presents, though. You _did_ say you got me something, didn't you?"

"Of course I did," Harry says automatically. He can't stop staring at the Christmas tree where it stands in front of the window, all lit up and glowing. "But I didn't turn it on."

"Well, I sure as hell didn't do it," Eggsy says. He shrugs it off. "Whatever. Let's eat. Then presents. The ones you better have got for me." He gives Harry a mock scowl.

"Of course," Harry says. They head for the kitchen, Eggsy leaning on him a little more now that they're on level ground. Just as they pass out of the living room, Harry gives the tree one last, lingering look, staring at it -- and the cord lying on the floor, the plug clearly visible.

"Come on," Eggsy says, and tugs at his arm.

Harry smiles and walks with him. He flips on the kitchen light, but it can't outshine the tree glowing in the window.

Or the bright future that lies ahead.


End file.
